


Hostage Situation

by DarcyDelaney



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: deancasbigbang, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2016, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medic Castiel, Soldier Dean, War, With just a pinch of angst, hinted non-con, i guess?, lil bit of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 19:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8501629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarcyDelaney/pseuds/DarcyDelaney
Summary: Cas Novak is a misfit soldier whose dream is to be a medic and devote his life to helping people. Unfortunately, he’s also a part of the Company, which puts greater emphasis and value on its soldiers fighting in the war against the Battalion and its most infamous and evasive sharpshooter, Dean Winchester. When the Company manages to capture him, Cas is stunned. He’s spent much of his life bearing witness to Winchester’s handiwork, and finally being in the presence of Winchester himself turns his world upside down.





	1. Chapter 1

**First off!**

A million and a half thanks to my artist, [dreymart](http://dreymart.tumblr.com/), who created the most incredible art that left me screaming internally for days. Check out [her masterpost](http://dreymart.tumblr.com/post/152853144394/title-hostage-situation-author-darcydelaney) and leave her all the love! A million and a half more thanks to [Athenae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/honorablesumner/pseuds/honorablesumner), who fought through motion sickness and my bad grammar to beta this fic on a five-hour bus ride, and made me laugh with all her comments to go along with her edits <3

No real other notes to go with this one, but I really hope you enjoy; thanks for checking it out!

 

* * *

  

_“We held onto hope of better days coming, and when we did, we were right.” -The Mountain Goats, “You Were Cool”_  

 

Cas is woken up in the middle of the night by shouts and whoops coming from outside his tent. He sits up on his elbows, ignoring the scratchiness of the sheets, and swings his legs over the side of the cot. He glances over to where his uniform is draped over a chair, but decides against changing, opting instead to just grab his boots and pull them on as quickly as possible. He looks up just in time to see a parade of lanterns flash past the tent’s walls and immediately picks up the pace, scrambling to his feet and almost tripping over his untied laces.

He yanks open the tent’s flap and peers outside. The lanterns have slowed down, giving Cas a chance to catch up, and he stumbles toward the scene, trying to stuff his laces into his boots as he goes.

He’s not the only one with this mindset; several of his fellow soldiers are making their way toward the large main tent in the middle of camp, which is where only the most important meetings and conversations happen. It’s also rarely used, which is why Cas has to do a double take when he hears several different voices yelling that that’s where the group is heading.

Whatever’s going on, it’s _big_.

A few others are scattered around the tent when Cas arrives, and he scans for any familiar faces before making a beeline toward Gabe, Raphael, and Balthazar. They’re not exactly friends to Cas, more like acquaintances if anything, but they all went through basic training together, and they’re part of the select few in the Station who aren’t constantly haranguing him about being more assertive and working on his shooting skills.

They’re rubbing sleep out of their eyes and smacking their cheeks to try and wake themselves up when Cas sidles up next to them. The only one who seems to notice his presence is Gabe, who always seems to be awake--it’s like he’s got a direct line to all the energy in Station 1237.

Gabe flashes Cas a wide grin. “Mornin’, sunshine,” he says, leaning over and slapping Cas on the back. “Talk about a wakeup call, huh?”

“Do you know what’s going on?” Cas asks, bending down to finally take a few seconds and tie the laces of his boots.

“Nobody knows,” Balthazar mumbles through a yawn. “I would've been fine sleeping through the whole damn thing, but this wanker decided to poke in and throw his boot at me,” he adds, jerking his head toward Raphael, who grins smugly.

“What else are neighbors for?” he says. Balthazar flips him off.

Gabe laughs as Balthazar and Raphael start bickering all over again, which is when Cas starts to let his eyes and mind wander. He’s never been in the main tent since arriving at Station 1237, and doesn’t understand why his fellow soldiers aren’t more unsettled at being there. Of course, if Cas hadn’t known its reputation beforehand, he would’ve been relatively unfazed--the main tent is, well, just a normal tent, thick canvas walls and roof with a couple of wooden chairs and a table, as well as some candles and a few gas lanterns for nighttime use, but somehow it seems more menacing. Cas breathes slowly against the uncomfortable knot of anxiety forming in the pit of his stomach as he rubs his arms, trying to get some warmth. His pajamas are too thin for the cold, and he’s already regretting his decision of not changing first.

There’s a chorus of shouts from outside the tent, and suddenly Michael and Lucifer burst inside, a struggling man between the two of them. They’re each gripping one of his arms tightly, and all the thrashing he’s doing reminds Cas of a wild horse. The man’s wrists are bound behind his back, and Cas can hear him yelling incoherently, tossing his head back and forth to try and shake loose the hood that had been thrown over his head. Station 1237’s lieutenant, Alistair, strides in behind them, and Cas automatically feels his back straighten at the sight of the lieutenant. He keeps his eyes averted, not wanting to call attention to himself, but Alistair is preoccupied by their new captive. He glares at the man who is still fighting against Michael and Lucifer, and delivers a quick punch to his stomach that makes Cas wince and the man cry out in pain.

Another soldier Cas vaguely remembers from training grabs one of the chairs and positions it in the middle of the tent, taking advantage of the man’s disorientation and forcing him down into it, binding his ankles to the wooden legs and adjusting the ropes around his wrists so that they’re tied to the chair, as well. Once they’re sure that he’s secure, Michael and Lucifer step back and they all watch as Alistair reaches forward and yanks the hood away.

All the air in the room seems to disappear at once as everyone pulls in a shocked breath. Cas’ eyes widen as he takes in the soldier in front of him. He’s not even a man--he can’t be much older than Cas himself, at 22.

“Holy shit,” Gabe breathes. “Dean Winchester.”

Winchester looks over at them, his eyes narrow and brimming with anger. There’s a deep purple bruise already building under his right eye, which is almost swollen shut. His lip is split, and there’s a deep gash at his hairline, slowly dripping blood down his face. Cas is sure that Winchester would have regaled them with every curse word in the book if he hadn’t been gagged, the thick cloth that’s been forced between his teeth digging into the edges of his mouth.

Alistair’s lips curl into an unpleasant smile as he approaches Winchester. He makes to untie the gag under his captive’s contemptuous glare, but at the last second, he grabs a fistful of his hair and jerks his head back instead, exposing the long column of his neck. Winchester lets out a pained grunt at the unexpected movement, but keeps his gaze fixed on Alistair.

“You try to scream and I’ll cut out your tongue,” Alistair says softly, showing Winchester the gleaming knife tucked away in its sheath at his hip. With that, Alistair releases his hold on Winchester’s hair, tugs at the knot at the back of his head, and pulls the gag out of his mouth.

Winchester rotates his jaw a little and licks his dry, chapped lips before taking in everyone gathered around him. Cas is careful to avoid eye contact, opting instead to take a sudden interest in the dirt at his feet. Despite his current ragged appearance--and his notoriety throughout the Company--Cas can’t help but acknowledge Winchester’s... _attractiveness_. He’s all subtle muscles and chiseled bone structures that make warmth blossom in Cas’ gut, and Cas can’t risk Winchester, or anyone else for that matter, noticing his reaction.

“What, no fruit basket?” Winchester says, smirking. Next to Cas, Raphael takes a step forward and smacks Winchester hard across the face. He grunts as his head snaps to the side, but he quickly rights himself, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the ground the way Cas remembers his father doing with chewing tobacco when he was young.

“The infamous Dean Winchester,” Alistair says, studying Winchester with his arms folded across his chest. To his credit, Winchester stares right back, apparently not at all intimidated by the lieutenant’s icy eyes.

“Always nice to meet a fan,” he says, his green eyes sparkling with mischief in a way Cas is surprised, but not entirely opposed, to see in his current predicament. Winchester’s got nice eyes, and for a split second despite how ridiculous it sounds, Cas wonders if they’re part of the reason why he’s such a deadly shot.

The Company and the Battalion have been at war for as long as Cas can remember, and he’s heard stories of Dean Winchester, the Battalion’s most notorious sharpshooter, for just as long. His expert shooting skills and apparent inability to get caught had turned him into the equivalent of a ghost story in all Stations of the Company, someone new recruits were warned of the second they were assigned to their Station, and seeing him sitting there in front of them makes the hair on the back of Cas’ neck stand on edge.

Alistair bristles at the laid-back nature of Winchester’s voice, but doesn’t physically respond with another punch or a slap. “You were much easier to capture than I’d anticipated, boy.”

Winchester glowers at him, tugging at the knots binding his wrists together behind his back. “That kind of thing tends to happen when you catch someone off guard.” His eyes scan over everyone in the tent again, and he grins at Alistair. “Rematch?”

“Maybe later.” Alistair leans down and grips Winchester’s jaw hard between his fingers. “You’re going to be worth a pretty penny, Mr. Winchester,” he says, tilting Winchester’s face from left to right as the boy struggles against him. “I’m sure your friends across the River are dying to get you back. Literally.” He releases Winchester’s jaw, and Cas watches as those green eyes of Winchester’s widen, a bit of panic starting to well up in them.

“Fuck you,” Winchester growls, tamping down said panic so quickly it makes Cas wonder if he’d even seen it at all. He’s careful to make eye contact with everyone who’s looking at him before continuing, “Fuck all of you.”

Alistair tuts disapprovingly, like someone might do to a misbehaving child. “Now, is that any way to talk to your hosts, boy?”

Winchester smiles at him, exposing his blood-stained teeth, before repeating himself. “Fuck. You.”

Alistair studies him before reaching for the knife he had used to threaten Winchester just minutes earlier, and smacks its hilt hard against Winchester’s temple. Winchester grunts and his head snaps to the side at the contact, and he goes limp in his restraints, unconscious.

Alistair looks down at Winchester’s unconscious form and wipes the hilt of his knife against his shirt, as if it had been contaminated just by touching him.

"Watch him, Novak," Alistair growls, casting a quick glance Cas’ way before marching out of the tent, the rest of the soldiers falling in line behind him. Cas starts at the surprising mention of his name, but stands at attention as he watches the group leave. Gabe softly punches his shoulder as he walks by, and Balthazar gives him a discreet thumbs up that Cas thinks he’s supposed to take as encouragement, but instead just makes him even more nervous. Cas watches everyone leave before hesitantly turning his attention back to their newest captive.

Winchester’s head is lowered, chin resting against his chest, and even though Cas knows enough about trauma to the head to know that the blow in combination with all the other injuries he’d sustained was enough to keep him unconscious for at least another half hour, Cas is still half-expecting him to toss his head up and try to fight him.

He stands awkwardly near the entrance to the tent, glancing around hesitantly before edging toward the vacant chair in the corner. He collapses into it and drops his head into his hands, covering his eyes with the heels of his palms.

He isn’t supposed to be here. He isn’t supposed to have to deal with this.

 

* * *

 

Cas has never liked the feeling of a weapon in his hands.

Everyone starts young in the Company, being unofficially trained to fight from the day they’re big enough to properly wield even the smallest of pocket knives until they turn 18 and are accepted into one of the Stations surrounding the main residential and governing area of the Company--in Cas’ family, it had been no different. When he turned four, Cas’ parents had started buying him knives with fancy embroidered handles, rifles customized just for him...all in an attempt to ignite the spark of combat they were convinced was _there_.

Despite all their support and gentle prodding, though, Cas never took to the idea of combat. The weight of a weapon in his hands filled him with an anxiety that nothing else did, and he’d refuse to use it on anything, even the air during practice sessions at school.

School, though, is where he first met Missouri Moseley, a woman dedicated to everything Cas would soon realize that he loved--the medical field and keeping his ass out of the line of fire. He _did_ have a spark inside him; it just wasn’t for fighting, and that’s the exact opposite of what his parents had been hoping to hear.

They’d insisted that Cas would grow out of this infatuation, that he’d find his niche with archers or marksmen or sharpshooters, and worked as hard as they could to discourage his interest in one of the least admirable trades in the Company. They’d been thrilled when, on his 18th birthday, he’d been accepted--after more than a few strings had been pulled, he’s sure--into Station 1237 of the Company, to report to when he turned 21. Located on the outer fringes of the Company’s land, it doesn’t see much action and isn’t the most battle-hardened Station, for sure, but after spending years fearing that their son wouldn’t be accepted into _any_ Station at all, thus securing them as the latest laughingstock of the Company, Cas’ parents took what they could get.

When Cas had heard the news, he’d been relieved. The last thing he’d wanted was to have to fight in any way, shape, or form; being assigned to Station 1237 meant that he’d be away from his parents’ opinions while still having plenty of time to perfect his medical skills, and it practically guaranteed that he would see little to no action.

Which is part of why everyone had been so shocked that _they_ , Station 1237, had managed to get ahold of the Battalion’s most infamous sharpshooter.

The Company and the Battalion had been at odds for years, ever since the Battalion had refused to allow the Company to take over their land west of the River. The Company had made giant strides in acquiring land surrounding the Battalion, but the Battalion itself held tough, and war had been officially waged between the two nearly six years ago.

Suddenly, all the fighting skills Cas and his peers had spent their lives learning became necessary, and Cas saw more and more members of the Company come back with wounds--some mild, some fatal, but almost all at the hands of Dean Winchester.

Cas spent his life seeing Winchester’s handiwork; finally seeing Winchester himself nearly turns his world upside down.

 

* * *

 

Cas is dozing, half-asleep in his chair when he hears the rustling of grass and someone entering the tent. He jolts awake and quickly tries to compose himself while making it look like no, of course he hadn’t been sleeping on the job, _of course not_.

“Novak,” Michael says, looking at Cas stonily. Michael’s family had started training him and his brothers for the Company almost immediately after they learned to walk, so it’s no surprise that he takes this shit even more seriously than most, and of course he’d be the one to catch Cas nodding off while watching the most attractive--no, impressive, _impressive_ \--captive the Company has ever managed to attain.

“Good morning, Michael,” Cas says, getting to his feet and stretching a bit, trying to alleviate the awkward tension both in the air and in his muscles, and praying that Michael doesn’t call him out on anything.

Michael nods toward Winchester, whose head is still hanging down, resting against his chest. “Has he been like that all night?”

Cas nods. “He could just be asleep now, although Alistair did hit him pretty hard.”

Michael snorts. “Piece of shit deserved it.” He sidesteps around Cas and sits down in the chair, kicking his feet up onto the small table nearby and crossing them at the ankles. “You can go,” he says, jerking his thumb towards the tent’s entrance. “Get some food and some sleep, if you think you need more--” Cas can feel the blush building in his neck and cheeks at the jab “--and then get back here so I can head out.”

Cas nods again and heads for the exit. “Thanks, Michael.”

“Mhmm.” He doesn’t look at Cas when he says it, instead focusing on Winchester, a predatory look in his eyes that makes Cas’ stomach twist. Cas picks up the pace and leaves before he can think too much about it.

 

It takes all of thirty seconds after Cas leaves the tent for him to start being peppered with questions about Winchester.

“Did he try to hurt you?”

“How'd they catch him?”

“Is he awake yet?”

“Has he said anything to you?”

And Cas’ personal favorite: “I've heard his eyes are black, is that true?”

Some are stupid, some are concerned, and all are more than Cas wants to discuss, but no question is more unsettling than, “What's Alistair gonna do to him?” and the inevitable follow-up of, “D’you think I can help?”

Although Cas hasn't been directly affected by Winchester’s handiwork, he knows plenty of people who've lost parents, siblings, significant others, and friends to the pull of Winchester’s trigger, and would be more than willing to exact a bit of revenge. He’s been the equivalent of a ghost story throughout the Company for years, and now that he’s actually within their midst, people’s curiosity--and anger--is definitely getting the better of them.

“Spit on him for me, Novak!”

“Hey, you think you could sneak in a little…” The voice falls away as its owner pretends to jab something into his own side. “C’mon, he’ll be so beat up by the time Alistair finishes with him, no one will have even noticed you started the party!”

“Make him _suffer_.”

That last remark had been mentioned softly, quick and ominous as he passed by, and Cas takes care to avoid as many people as possible after that. It takes him a few extra minutes to make it to the mess hall, but it’s worth it not to have to deal with the death wishes of his fellow Company members.

He grabs a bowl and scoops himself up some oatmeal, grabs a few pieces of bacon, and makes his way to his regular table, arriving right in the middle of a conversation.

“I heard he killed his whole family,” Balthazar says, his spoon scraping against his bowl as he scoops up the last of his breakfast. “In the middle of the night, too. Just-- _bam bam bam_ .” He claps his hands together with each _bam_ , and Cas has trouble trying to hide the way his body jolts at the noise as he sits down between Gabe and Samandriel. Gabe nods at him, and Samandriel gives him a soft smile.

“Oh, come on,” Raphael says with a roll of his eyes. “It was broad daylight, not the middle of the night. Everyone knows that.”

Cas swallows hard and keeps his eyes trained on his food. Winchester had looked so peaceful, he found it hard to believe anything his fellow soldiers were saying about him.

Then again, _anyone_ would look peaceful while unconscious.

“Cas, you’ve seen him,” Gabe says, jerking Cas out of his reverie. “Has he woken up yet? Has he said anything?”

Cas shakes his head. “He was still out when I left. Unconscious or asleep, I don’t know.” Whatever he is, though, Cas hopes, for Winchester’s sake, that he stays that way until Cas returns. With Michael having taken over watch, Cas has no doubt that the older soldier would have no problem using even the slightest snark from Winchester as an excuse to kill him right then and there.

“Ah.” Gabe nods once, then shrugs, _what can ya do._ “Kid’s smart, then. Once he's awake, you _know_ Alistair is gonna go to town on him.”

Everyone around the table murmurs in agreement.

“I'd hate to be him,” Balthazar says with a sigh. “The shit that he's got coming for him, god _damn._ ”

“You all are talking like the bastard doesn't deserve it.” The group looks up to see Lucifer standing above them. He flashes them a grin before dropping his bowl onto the table with a careless clatter. “Motherfucker should be dead already, for all I care. That fucker’s got it out for each and every one of us, and if we hadn’t caught his sorry ass, you know he wouldn’t rest until he’d killed us all.”

Cas tries to push his bowl away from him as inconspicuously as possible and he takes a deep breath, trying to get his nerves under control. He’s just being naive; he knows that Winchester is the enemy, that there’s no redeeming qualities to his name, not a single one. At the same time, though, he can’t completely force his doubt about the validity of Lucifer’s statement from his mind.

And that scares him.

“Even still,” Raphael says, clapping Samandriel on the back as he attempts to get the heat of Lucifer’s stare off him, “make sure you keep yourself in check, Luce. You know Alistair wants the honors, and you’ll be even worse off than Winchester if you kill him before Alistair gets his playtime in.”

Lucifer doesn’t respond, instead gripping his cup a little too tightly and downing the rest of his drink. He drops it back onto the table with a thud and grins at them all. “Doesn’t mean I can’t have mine first.”

 

* * *

 

After giving up on his attempt at eating breakfast, Cas heads back to his tent, Lucifer’s words still ringing in his ears. He slides stiffly under his blanket and stares at the ceiling, trying to force himself to fall asleep for even just an hour or two, but his mind is running a mile a minute. He groans frustratedly and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes before letting his arms drop to his sides, pleading his mind to just leave him alone. He’s already the laughingstock of the entire goddamn station; the last thing he needs is sympathy for a fucking hostage, especially one as mouthy and dangerous and attrac-- _awful_ , as awful as Winchester.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes.

Cas gives up on getting any sleep after an attempted fitful nap that lasted less than an hour, and heads back to relieve Michael of his guard duties. Anxiety builds on itself in the pit of his stomach, hot and squirming, like it’ll burst out of him at any second. He sucks in air through his nose and tries to right himself. He can do this, he just can’t let himself get distracted in any way. The rest of his fellow soldiers do it, so he should be able to, as well.

Easy.

The tent is quiet as he approaches, and Cas can’t decide if that’s a good or bad sign. On the one hand, no screams of pain or terror is good, but what if it’s silent because Michael had already _killed_ Winchester?

_No, no_. There’s no way anyone’s getting a piece of Winchester before Alistair, not even Lucifer. Cas takes one more deep breath before grabbing the edge of the tent flap and pulling it open, peering inside before entering.

Winchester’s eyes are the first thing Cas sees, and he notices the subtle way they widen when he finally enters. Cas finds himself intrigued by the way they’re still bright and defiant, even after last night; if he were in Winchester’s position, he’d be on the verge of tears right about now.

Michael’s focused on Winchester, his back to Cas, and doesn’t notice him until he realizes that Winchester’s attention is elsewhere. “Hey,” Michael says sharply, reaching out and grabbing Winchester’s jaw roughly, forcing Winchester to lock eyes with him. “Did I say you could look away, asshole?”

Winchester keeps his eyes on Cas for as long as possible before darting his gaze back to Michael and glaring at him. Michael keeps his grip tight as he turns around, but his hand goes slack when he sees Cas standing there.

“Hey, Novak,” he says cheerfully, brushing his hands casually on his pants. “Breakfast good?”

“Fine,” Cas says with a nod, watching the way Winchester rotates his jaw. “Bacon today.”

Michael closes his eyes and grins. “Perfect.” He grabs his overcoat and heads for the tent’s entrance, clapping Cas on the back as he goes. “He’s all yours, Novak. Enjoy.”

Cas waits until Michael has exited the tent before glancing at Winchester, who’s staring at him defiantly. He shifts a little in his seat, but doesn’t make any move to try and loosen his bonds, which, in a way, just makes Cas even more nervous.

“Uh, good morning.”

Winchester narrows his eyes, but keeps his mouth shut. Cas clears his throat uncomfortably before nodding to himself and taking a seat in the chair in the corner. He can feel Winchester’s eyes on him as he sits down, and when he glances up, he catches Winchester’s eyes darting away, his cheeks going slightly red at being caught looking--or maybe that’s just the general exertion of being held captive. Cas keeps his eyes on him, curious as to how Winchester will react to that, and his eyebrows raise in surprise when Winchester looks back up at him.

“You gonna keep the party going, or what?” His voice is rough and hoarse, but against his better judgement, Cas likes the sound of its huskiness in his ears. “It’d be nice if you just got it over with, so I can pass out without worrying about you goddamn jumpin’ me.”

“I...I’m sorry?”

“Pick up where your friend left off.” He tries hard to keep his voice unfazed and casual, but Cas doesn’t have to listen hard to notice the way Winchester’s voice breaks near the end of the sentence.

It’s then that Cas notices the fresh bruise making itself at home along Winchester’s jaw, the way the skin around it is an angry red, and he can feel his stomach twist with discomfort.

“No,” he finally says. “I’m not.”

Winchester’s shoulders sag and he sucks on his lower lip, eyes closed. “Don’t expect me to thank you for this,” he says, “for treating me like a fucking human and not kicking the shit out of me right now.”

A remark like that is probably what earned him the new bruise in the first place, and if Michael were still here, Cas is sure that Winchester would have a broken finger or two to add to his collection of injuries. Michael’s _not_ here, though, and Cas has no interest--or knowledge--in breaking fingers, just setting them, so he sighs and shakes his head. After a few seconds, though, a thought occurs to him that he voices before he can think better of it.

“You hurt us, too, you know.”

Winchester snaps his head up, fire in his eyes. “I _what_?”

Cas bites his lip. “No. Nothing.”

Winchester scoffs and grins humorlessly before edging forward in the seat as much as his bonds will allow. “Fuck you--what did you _say_?”

Cas sighs and runs a hand through his hair, cursing himself for not keeping his mouth shut. “You said you wouldn’t thank me for treating you like a fucking human, and I just thought it was funny, because I know plenty of people here who have had to grieve for their loved ones because you killed them, because you didn’t treat them like fucking humans. I have no expectations of you thanking me, especially because I know that you won’t be apologizing for what _you’ve_ done, either.”

Winchester is silent at that; Cas can practically see his mind turning over the words in his head, trying to configure the best response. Finally, he just shakes his head. “Fuck you.”

“Original.” Cas’ eyes widen, and he wonders where this attitude is coming from; he’s almost never this snarky and short, but something about Winchester makes him want to completely match his attitude and speaking style.

Winchester almost seems just as surprised as he is. He scoffs once more and rolls his eyes. “Fucking dick.”

That hurts more than Cas had been expecting it to, and he knows that Winchester can tell. He grins smugly at Cas, and almost on impulse, Cas leans back and stretches out, crossing his feet at the ankles and lacing his fingers together behind his head. “Sure is nice to be able to stretch out,” he says. He feels like an idiot the second he says it, but it’s something he has that Winchester doesn’t, something he can hold over him.

And it works.

The effect is minimal, but Cas can see the way that, for a split second, Winchester looks longingly at the way Cas is stretched out and relaxed, and Cas’ chest bursts with pride as he flashes him a quick grin.

He’s almost disappointed when Winchester doesn’t come up with another comeback. Despite the fact that it came paired with verbal abuse, it had been nice to hear his voice.

 

* * *

 

As the days pass, Cas realizes that he hates being on watch over Winchester, but not for the reason he’d expected.

Spending the majority of each day with someone who hates him isn’t how Cas would choose to spend his time, and being forced to do so is a nightmare for his anxiety. He and Winchester spend the time awkwardly staring at nothing--and sometimes with passing glances at each other every so often, Cas has come to notice--and occasionally Winchester will throw some kind of barbed remark Cas’ way, but otherwise, things are only one word: boring.

Cas has always had trouble dealing with it when people dislike him, and Dean _hates_ him, which is slowly but surely driving Cas insane. He wrings his hands awkwardly in his lap and takes a deep breath before plunging into something he’d thought about venturing into for a few days now: small talk.

“How did you get here?” Castiel asks. “I mean, how did they...capture you?”

Dean studies him for a few seconds, then huffs out a sigh. “What makes you think I want to fucking talk to you?”

Cas can feel the flush building, running up his neck and filling his cheeks, and he averts his gaze down to the dirt. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I’m here for the next four hours, and we’ve got nothing better to do.” He pauses, then adds, “Unless you’ve got a better idea. The main topic of conversation at lunch earlier had been a new interrogation method we’re trying to perfect, and we need some test--”

Winchester coughs suddenly to cut him off.

“What was the question?”

“How were you captured?” As he repeats it, Cas realizes that he’s actually more interested in the answer than he thought he’d be. He’s never been in battle, doesn’t know the proper protocol for these things. He finds himself feeling like he’s getting ready for Winchester to tell him a bedtime story, full of strange people and customs and far-off lands.

Winchester licks his lips thoughtfully, and Cas finds himself zeroing in on them. He shakes his head quickly and waves his hand in front of his face, pretending to shoo away a bug. Dean shifts in his chair, giving another futile tug at the ropes binding his wrists.

“I’m a marksman,” Dean starts. “Or, was, I guess. But I’m sure you know that.” He spits out the _you_ with such venom that Cas would’ve taken a step back had he been standing. “I was supposed to have people watching me, making sure I didn’t get ambushed. That obviously went great.” He looks away and takes a breath. “Your pals snuck up on me, nearly bashed my goddamn head in, dragged me to your five-star camp, and voila, here we are.”

Cas doesn’t respond. Instead, he gets to his feet and walks over to Dean, approaching him as if he were a wild animal. He reaches out a hand hesitantly; Dean’s eyes follow his fingers as they trace a fading cut along his hairline that obviously hadn’t been properly cleaned.

“Was this from them?”

“You catch on fast.”

“You’re lucky this hasn’t gotten infected yet,” Cas says, ignoring Dean’s attitude. He uses his thumb to push Dean’s hair back so he can see the wound more clearly.

“Yeah, and what would you know about it, Clara Barton?”

“More than you,” Cas answers. Dean tries to pull away from him, and Cas quickly brings his free hand to the back of Dean’s head to steady him. “Don’t move,” he says. “I’m trying to help you.”

“Sure you are,” Dean mutters, and his words hit Cas like a rough punch to the gut.

 

_“Look at what Missouri gave me!” a young Cas says excitedly, running into the living room and waving his new stethoscope in the air. It’s obviously not completely “new”--Missouri had given it to him as a gift after she’d bought a new one--but Cas is infatuated with the device, and views it as the first step towards becoming a medic, like he’s wanted for years._

_His mother looks up from her writing and gives him a half-hearted smile, but his father doesn’t bother to fold down his newspaper._

_“Why are you wasting your time with that, Castiel?” he asks boredly, licking the tip of a finger before turning the page of his paper._

_Cas tries to hide the cringe; he hates his full name, and his parents are really the only ones who use it._

_“Missouri said I--”_

_“Last I checked, Ms. Moseley isn't one of your parents, is she?”_

_“Castiel,” his mother says patiently, “it's wonderful that Missouri is letting you spend time with her, but don't you think you should be spending more time preparing for the enlistment?”_

_Cas’ stomach twists uncomfortably, and he studies his shoes before glancing back up from under his lashes. “I don't think I'd be a good fit for the Company’s troops,” he says softly._

_“Honey, everyone is a good fit for the troops; that’s the whole point.”_

_“I want to be a medic.”_

_His mother frowns, and an uncomfortable silence permeates the room. “I'm not sure that's the best path for you,” she repeats uncertainly. “All the other boys your age are training to join the fight; don't you think you'd be better off joining them?”_

_Cas shakes his head, swallowing hard and fighting past the nausea churning in his gut and winding its way up his throat. “Missouri already said I was welcome to practice under her as an apprentice until I'm good enough to work on my own. I'll still be able to contribute to the effort, but not as a soldier.”_

_“Absolutely not.” His father barks out a laugh, but still doesn’t look up from his paper. “Do you understand how much of an_ embarrassment _you'd be to the family? To your mother? Her only son, insisting on wasting his time as a medic, one of the least honorable jobs in the Company,” he says, “nothing but an excuse used by cowards to stay out of the line of fire. You're going to be a medic.” He swirls the whiskey in his glass around for a few seconds before scoffing again and taking a swig. “Sure you are.”_

 

Suddenly, Dean’s words are interchangeable with his father’s, Cas finds himself staring into his father’s cold blue eyes while looking at Dean, and before he can think any more about it, Castiel snaps. He grips a fistful of Dean’s hair and jerks his head upright, staring into his wide green eyes.

“I don’t think you’re following,” he says, barely above a whisper. “The whole point of you being here is to be tortured for information and to get a ransom. Maybe not even that; maybe Alistair just wants the satisfaction of killing you. And I could be _killed_ if anyone finds out that I’m trying to lessen your suffering, especially when I should be doing the opposite. So I recommend that you keep your backtalk to yourself from now on, understood?”

Dean’s lips part in surprise, but he stays silent, offering Cas a quick nod of his head.

“Thank you.” He releases Dean’s hair and continues to inspect the cut, making a mental note of what he would need to clean and sanitize it. It doesn’t seem too deep--not deep enough for stitches--and he’s confident that he could get the dirt out with some soap and water.

When he takes a step back, Dean is staring at him with a mixture of anger and anxiety that Cas is surprised to see. He purses his lips, then offers Dean a wry smile; he can’t resist. “Don’t move.”

Dean opens his mouth, presumably to argue, but closes it instead and tilts his head back with an exasperated sigh at Cas’ poor attempt at a joke. “Sure thing, douchebag.”

 

* * *

 

No matter how hard he tries to keep it burning, Cas’ anger only last for a moment or two after he leaves the tent. At first, he's indignant, wondering where Dean Winchester gets the nerve to talk to him like that, but he's quick to realize that he's Dean Winchester--he doesn’t need to have known him long to know that he'll talk like that to anyone, even Alistair.

Maybe even people he actually _likes_.

Cas sighs and runs a hand through his already-messy hair as he makes his way through the camp. He doesn’t need this, doesn’t need those thoughts right now. He can’t have been the only one in the Company to notice how good-looking Winchester is, but he’s undoubtedly the only one who’s considered the fact that maybe Winchester thinks the same of him.

It’s more of a fantasy than a consideration, but Cas likes to keep it in mind all the same.

Not much is going on as Cas makes his way through the camp to the infirmary; almost everyone is already in bed, not wanting to scout out enemy territory the next day on a poor night’s sleep. Cas wonders if they’ll take something of Dean’s with them to show that they’re not kidding; they’ve got one of the most dangerous sharpshooters in the Company and the Battalion combined, and there’s nothing he can do but talk smack and hope he doesn’t get killed.

As he walks, Cas starts to think about the feeling of community and sense of home that the camp gives him. Even though he hates where most of the camp’s priorities lie, it feels like he’s spent more time here than in his actual home, and despite his parents’ insistences that he’d feel the opposite, he actually feels more at home and welcomed here regardless of his disinterest in becoming an actual soldier. They’ve got plenty of those, and they like the idea of having someone there who has their backs if things go to shit. Most of them don’t know how to stitch up even the simplest wound; Cas can stitch even the most complicated wound in the most tender spot with pinpoint accuracy.

The person who most took a shine to Cas from his first day at Station 1237 was the camp’s medic, Hannah. A smart, soft-spoken woman, she’d taken him under her wing when she caught him admiring her supplies and essentially picked up where Missouri left off, encouraged his passion, and taught him everything he’s learned since his absorption into the Station.

The dim light of Hannah’s lamp is shining through the canvas of her tent despite the late hour, and Cas wonders why he’d expect anything else. Hannah is known to keep irregular hours, and even if someone needs help during one of the rare times she’s asleep, she’s quick to wake up and offer her help.

“Hannah?” Cas asks, ducking under the flap and into the infirmary tent.

Hannah pokes her head up from a pile of supplies and flashes Cas a warm smile. “Evening,” she says brightly as Cas starts ambling around the inside of the tent.

“Hello,” Cas says with a soft smile.

“You’re out late.” She keeps her eyes on her work, sorting some bandages and checking on supplies.

Cas sighs. “I have a patient.”

That gets Hannah’s attention, and she looks up at him with raised eyebrows. “And who might that be?”

Cas hesitates before walking further into the tent and taking a seat across from Hannah at the table. “I...he's the captive Alistair brought in earlier. De--”

“Dean Winchester,” she finishes. “I heard we’ve had a guest of honor in camp the past few days. What's he like?”

The question takes Cas off guard. “What's he…” He’s goddamn _gorgeous_ is what he is, but Cas has a feeling that Hannah isn’t interested in how Winchester makes him _feel_ , so he fumbles to include some other description. “Well, he's haughty and full of himself, and he’s got an attitude.”

Hannah grins, a pleasant, knowing sight that Cas loves. “Well, I imagine we'd _all_ have a bit of an attitude after becoming a hostage in an enemy’s camp.” She shakes her head solemnly. “The poor thing.”

Cas’ eyes widen in surprise. “Poor thing?” he repeats. “Hannah, he's killed--”

“That doesn’t matter,” she interrupts. “The only important thing here is that he, like all of you, is practically a child, and has gotten his entire life taken away by this war.” She pauses, and Cas can tell how uncomfortable she is with the idea of arguing. “And now he's hurt, correct?”

Cas chews on his lower lip, then nods. “Someone smashed his head with something; he's got a decent-sized cut at his hairline,” he says, gesturing with his hand toward his own hairline.

She nods, then gestures vaguely around the tent with her free hand. “Help yourself.”

Cas begins searching through the supplies, digging around until he finds cotton, alcohol, and a few bandages. He’s got the entirety of Hannah’s tent memorized, he’s been in there so many times, but he doesn’t rush; instead, he lets his fingers run over the cool instruments used for more intense wounds, maybe even for surgeries--scissors, tweezers, knives, scalpels. He knows that they come as part of the package with being a medic, but at the same time, he hopes that he never has to use them.

“Thank you, Hannah,” he finally says a few moments later, after he’s figured that he’s left Winchester alone long enough.

“Of course. And Cas,” she says.

Cas looks up at her, his hands full of medical supplies.

“Don't go judging him for what he's done before thinking about what he's been through. This war is making us all do terrible things, things we never thought we could be capable of doing. Understand?”

Cas doesn't have to pause long before giving her his reply. “Yes,” he says. “I understand.”

Hannah nods before turning back to her supplies once more. “He could surprise you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Cas catches Winchester pulling desperately at his bindings when he gets back into the tent. Winchester freezes immediately upon hearing Cas enter, trying to cover up the fact that he had been trying to get himself loose. It’s a sad attempt—his cheeks are flustered and Cas had heard him struggling before he entered—but he decides not to comment on it.

“Nice to know you can listen,” he says icily, dragging his chair up to Winchester and placing his supplies onto it.

Winchester glowers at him, but keeps his mouth shut. He drops his head in an attempt to make it harder for Cas to complete his gesture of kindness, and Cas takes a couple of seconds to see if he’ll change his tune on his own. When he doesn’t, Cas sighs and takes Winchester’s chin in his hand, the good bedside manner he’d learned from Missouri taking over without him having to think about it.

“This might sting,” he says simply, trying not to feel offended at the way Winchester averts his eyes. He gently presses the cloth dampened with alcohol against the cut and his stomach clenches when Winchester sucks in a pained breath through his teeth.

Before he can think twice, he mumbles a soft, “Sorry.”

Winchester doesn’t move his head, but Cas can feel his eyes look up at him in surprise. Cas takes a deep inhale through his nose and pats the wound a few more times before being satisfied, then tosses it back onto the chair before grabbing a bandage.

“You’re lucky this won’t need stitches; you’re close,” he says. “Right on the edge.”

“Lucky me,” Winchester mutters, and Cas can’t help it--he chuckles. He can feels his hands start to loosen up and become more nimble at that, as if some barrier he’s built around Winchester is dropping. He eyes the wound and carefully places the bandage over it, pressing down until it’s completely covered the entire area before stepping back to evaluate his handiwork. Winchester’s hair is just scraggly enough to barely cover the bandage, so Cas reaches forward and rearranges it a bit more with his palm to make sure that it stays hidden--if someone finds out he’d been treating wounds without permission from Alistair, he’d be even more fucked than Winchester is.

“That should keep you covered,” he says, nodding to himself. Winchester’s eyes have switched from focusing on the dirt under his boots to the top of the tent, and when they finally drop back down again, he’s staring at something to Cas’ right.

“Evening, Novak,” a smooth, British accent says from behind him. Cas turns and realizes just what--who--Winchester had been looking at.

“Balthazar,” Cas says, nodding. His fellow soldier is leaning casually against one of the poles holding up the tent, arms folded across his chest with a perpetually amused little grin on his face. “You got the short end of the stick tonight?”

Balthazar shrugs before striding into the tent, breezing past Cas and Winchester. “Slept all day, nothing better to do than make nice with this asshole, right?” he says, smacking the back of Winchester’s shoulder hard enough to make him jerk forward. Winchester glares up at him; Balthazar grins when he notices. “Isn’t that right, lovely? We’re going to have a positively glamorous time tonight.”

Cas hopes that Balthazar is just being his normal, cheeky self, but he feels his stomach twist uncomfortably at the thought of anyone else alone with Winchester. Himself he can handle--he knows he wouldn’t hurt him--but he’s not sure about anyone else. One of the most hated snipers from the Battalion tied up and at their mercy is practically an open invitation for trouble.

“He’s not much trouble,” Cas says, swallowing hard in an attempt to tamp down his nerves.

Balthazar chuckles. “That right?” He leans over Winchester and grips his chin hard between his thumb and index finger. “I’ve heard you’ve got quite a mouth on you, Prettyboy.”

“His bark is worse than his bite.”

“Then this should be fun. We’ll see who can come up with the best insults, eh?” Balthazar says before releasing Winchester’s jaw. He glances at Cas and grins. “I’ll let you know who wins tomorrow, Cassie.”

Cas glances at Winchester, who rotates his jaw slowly and glares at Balthazar again. “I’ll be back in the morning,” he says, taking a few steps toward the tent flap.

Balthazar swipes Cas’ medical supplies off the chair and drags it away from Winchester, flipping it around and sitting down so that the chair back is pressed up against his chest. He waggles his fingers at Cas. “Sweet dreams.”

 

* * *

 

 

As much as he tries, Cas can’t sleep that night. He stares up at the rough canvas above him, wishing he could see the stars from his bed. In what’s probably his tenth position change in the last ten minutes, Cas tucks one arm under his head and rests the other one over his chest and closes his eyes.

He's mad at himself, wondering how the hell he could help, even  _ think _ of making excuses for someone who's killed so many people, and caused so much grief and pain. Even worse, Cas can't deny that Winchester is  _ attractive _ , one of the most attractive men he’s ever seen.

Cas moans frustratedly and grabs his pillow, pulling it out from under his head and pressing it down over his face. He wants to yell into it, get all his frustration and confusion out, but he knows that it won't do any good. He can yell and scream and feel guilty all he wants, but that won't change the fact that there's something appealing to him about Winchester, about a murderer.

He tries to remember what Hannah had said, that war makes people do terrible things, and not to hold it against him, but Cas quickly finds that to be easier said than done. He hates that Winchester--and he and his fellow soldiers--have been forced to do this, but it doesn't change the fact that Winchester has  _ killed _ people, something Cas can't even fathom.

Cas sighs exasperatedly and tosses the pillow down toward his feet before covering his eyes with his hands. “Goddamn it, Cas,” he mutters to himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Cas spends the first few moments of his next shift studying the dark circles under Winchester’s eyes, which are now almost more prevalent than his bruises, the way his blinking slows down and his eyelids start to droop before he forces himself to attention again. He looks exhausted, and even after spending the whole night trying to convince himself not to, Cas feels yet another small pang of empathy for him.

“You can sleep, you know,” Cas says.

Winchester rolls his eyes. “Think I’ll pass, but thanks for the generosity.”

Cas sighs and leans forward, resting his head in his hand and studying Winchester. “You’re exhausted,” he says. “What do you think is going to happen while you’re asleep?”

He regrets the question almost immediately as Winchester stares at him in disbelief. “Oh, forgive me for not wanting to fall asleep around the people who fucking want me  _ dead _ . What was I  _ thinking _ ?”

Cas huffs out a sigh. His direct connection with the Company aside, he’d never do anything to hurt Winchester; didn’t him cleaning his wound prove that? He opens his mouth to tell Winchester just that, but before any words come out, his mind switches their positions—if he was the one bruised and beaten, tied up and under Winchester’s scrutiny, there’s no way he’d feel comfortable enough to shut his eyes for more than a second.

“Listen,” he finally says. “You don’t have any reason to trust me here, but nobody’s going to hurt you; I’ll make sure of it.”

There’s fire in Winchester’s eyes, and Cas is sure he’s about to throw more attitude his way when he adds, “You’re a bargaining chip, and the only way you can be used is if you’re still alive. I believe you already met our first-in-command your first night here—do you think anyone’s going to want to cross him just to kick your ass a little bit more?”

Winchester’s still suspicious, Cas can tell, but the longer he lets the words soak in, the more the fire in Winchester’s eyes seems to go out.

“So go to sleep,” Cas says. “I’ve got three more hours on my shift; I’ll wake you before anyone else comes.”

Winchester is still wary of him, and Cas is sure that he doesn’t trust him as far as he could throw him, but he’s pleased at the fact that Winchester does seem to relax a little after that. He shifts awkwardly, trying to make himself comfortable, and slowly, very slowly, closes his eyes.

It’s intriguing to Cas, the way Winchester’s face turns peaceful, the worry lines and creases temporarily erased. He keeps watching as Winchester’s head lolls back and to the side a little, and he thinks back once again to what Hannah had told him.  _ Don't you judge him for what he's done before thinking about what he's been through. This war is making us all do terrible things, things we never thought we could be capable of doing. _ Suddenly, Cas wonders what Winchester is like when his guard is down, when he’s not being a soldier, but rather a son, a brother, a friend, maybe even something more. His heart stammers a bit at that last thought, and he shakes his head quickly to try and erase it from his mind.  _ Something _ more _ , Cas? Really? _

Cas leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest, keeping his eyes on Winchester while letting his mind wander. As far as he knows, nobody from the Battalion has tried to free Winchester, or even bargain on his behalf, and it makes him wonder if Alistair will get impatient and just kill Winchester and be done with it.

A rustling noise draws Cas’ attention from Winchester over to the tent’s entrance, where he comes face-to-face with a rabbit. It stares at him blankly, and Cas stares right back until he hears Winchester startle awake. Spooked by Winchester’s movements, the rabbit hops away, and Cas turns back around. Winchester’s face is flushed and he’s breathing heavily, looking accusingly at Cas.

“Relax, it was a rabbit,” Cas says, trying to sound annoyed while actually feeling impressed at Winchester’s hearing. “You’re fine.”

It takes a bit longer this time, but Winchester does eventually succumb to an uneasy sleep again as Cas stands guard. He feels like Winchester’s guardian angel, in a sense, and for the first time, he feels like he’s living up to his name.

 

The rest of the afternoon is slow and uneventful, and as the end of his shift approaches, Cas is almost tempted to sneak in some shut-eye for himself when he sees Winchester’s body suddenly tense up. Cas looks at him curiously--he’s still asleep, but probably in the throes of a nightmare. He shakes his head sharply and starts muttering in his sleep, which causes Cas to lean forward, his interest piqued.

It’s just random grunts and him repeating the word “No” every so often, nothing revolutionary, and Cas is about to go back to his sleeping plan when he hears Winchester cry out.

“Sam!”

Cas raises his eyebrows. It comes out muffled, but Cas is sure that he didn’t hear wrong. Winchester’s eyes are squeezed shut, and based on how stiff the rest of Winchester’s body is, Cas is sure that if he walked behind him, he’d see his hands balled into fists, too.

He shakes his head a few more times, unconsciously pulling against his ropes, almost every “No” peppered with a “Sam” or “Sammy.” After a few minutes of this, Winchester startles himself awake, his eyes wide and darting around the tent as if he’d forgotten where he was. When he catches Cas’ eyes, his own narrow, and he glares at him, trying to compose himself.

“Who’s Sam?”

All the color drains from Winchester’s face at that, and Cas is certain that he’d never seen Winchester that scared. “Wh--” For a second, his eyes go wide again and his face is frozen is fear, but it quickly goes dark. “You stay the fuck away from him.”

“I don’t--”

“Don’t you fucking  _ dare _ touch him.”

“Who--”

“This wasn’t you doing me a favor at all, was it?” he demands. “You just wanted a way to get some...some fucking truth serum or something into me without a fight.”

It’s so absurd Cas almost wants to laugh. “You  _ said  _ his name!” he says exasperatedly. “In your sleep.”

Winchester starts pulling at the ropes again. “Fuck you.”

“Nobody did anything to you; nobody even touched you!”

Winchester lets out a sharp, humorless laugh as he continues to struggle. “That’s just what you want me to think.”

Cas opens his mouth to protest once more, but realizes how fruitless it’d be.  _ Save your breath, Cas _ . “Fine. Believe what you want. I’m almost done, anyway.”

He can feel Winchester’s eyes on him as he sprawls out in his own chair and tips his head back, closing his eyes. Winchester is still struggling against the ropes, and there’s only so much of his frustration that Cas can handle.

“Don’t waste your time,” he says, not bothering to lift his head. “You’re not getting out of those.”

“You seem pretty sure about that,” Winchester says.

“One hundred percent.” 

Winchester pauses, then chuckles to himself. “All the more reason to prove you wrong.”

Cas lets his arms hang loose at his sides and sighs exasperatedly before lifting one hand to his face and covering his eyes. 

Balthazar can’t get here soon enough.

 

* * *

 

 

“I tried to do him a  _ favor _ , Hannah!” Cas groans and drops his forehead into his arms, which are resting on the table in the medical tent. “I mean, if Alistair catches even a  _ hint _ of me trying to make things easier for him, then I'm dead.”

Hannah looks at him curiously while inventorying supplies, her hands moving quickly over the bandages, knives, and syringes. Her eyes are soft and gentle when she asks, “Then why did you?”

The question takes Cas by surprise, and he straightens up uncertainly. “I--what?”

“Why are you trying to make things easier for him, at the potential expense of your well-being?”

“You told me not to judge him!”

She nods. “I did, but there’s a difference between not judging him and putting yourself in harm’s way to help him.”

Cas stares at her, mouth agape, trying to put his already jumbled thoughts into words. “It’s part of the job, Hannah. Of being a medic, I mean. Good bedside manner and all that, just taking care of people. I mean,  _ you’re  _ the one who taught me that.”

“I know, and that’s true, but Cas, you can’t deny that you’re doing  _ more  _ than the bare minimum for him.” She pauses. “If I had been in charge of him, I wouldn’t be putting myself at as much risk as you are, just to make sure he’s comfortable.”

Cas can’t believe this, but whether  _ this _ is Hannah challenging him or Hannah knowing exactly what Cas is feeling without even having to try, he’s not sure. “Hannah, I’m doing my job. That’s it,” he repeats firmly.

She gives him a knowing look, her eyes sparkling mischievously, and it makes Cas uncomfortable. “Then why are you getting so upset that he’s not appreciating you more?” 

_ Oh, goddamn it.  _ Cas opens his mouth to respond, but can’t think of a way to make his thoughts coherent. Finally, he just settles on, “So sue me for wanting to be acknowledged.”

“Being a medic can be a thankless job, Cas,” Hannah says. She scoops up the supplies she’d been inventorying, and carries them over to the stacks of boxes lining one side of the tent. “Especially here. You know that.” She flashes him a sly little grin over her shoulder, and Cas can tell she’s just humoring him, that she already knows how he feels about Dean fucking Winchester. “You’ve never been this upset about a patient not being receptive before,” she says slowly, “but I think you  _ want _ this particular one to like you.”

Cas could leave right now. He could storm out of the tent in a huff and spend the rest of his free time before his next shift not being interrogated like this. He could grab some food and read, try to force all this to the back of his mind for the fiftieth time today and pretend that everything’s normal.

He  _ could _ do all those things, but instead, he drops his head back into his hands defeatedly. When he feels a warmth on his arm, he looks up; Hannah is back at the table, a hand resting on his forearm, her eyes now wide and concerned. 

“Why is this happening,” he mutters; if it’s more to Hannah or to himself, he can’t be sure. “Why do I--this isn’t, it’s not okay. It’s dangerous. It’s stupid. I should just resign from watching over hi--”

“No,” Hannah says, and Cas is surprised at how forceful the words come out of her mouth. “Cas, this might be a, well, an  _ odd _ situation, but you and I both know that most people here aren’t exactly open to the idea of treating enemies humanely, especially enemies like Dean Winchester.” She pauses before adding, “I know this is confusing and frustrating and scary, but if you resign, you know he’ll be dead within a few days.”

“Maybe he should be,” Cas mutters, and he isn’t surprised to feel Hannah’s hand slap his arm. 

“Don’t talk like that,” she admonishes. “I know you don’t mean that, and you do, too.”

Finally, Cas looks up at Hannah, wondering if he looks as helpless as he feels. She’s not much older than him, but her poise and grace, the way she always seems to know the right thing to say, makes him feel like he’s getting advice from an elder. “What do I do, Hannah?”

She pauses, giving her full attention to Cas for the first time today since he’d arrived in a huff. “Exactly what you’re doing,” she finally says. “Don’t make your feelings obvious if you can help it; you still don’t know if he’ll take advantage of them, and if something happens, I doubt you’ll want to have to explain to Alistair that he got a one-up on you because of a crush.”

Cas’ stomach drops just at the implication, and he worries his lower lip between his teeth. “Fuck,” he breathes, running a hand through his hair.

Hannah gives him a warm, reassuring smile, and gets to her feet. She comes around the table and wraps him in a hug, which Cas didn’t realize he needed until just then. He hugs her back hard, not wanting to let go. 

“You’ll be okay, Cas,” she says. When she breaks the hug, she keeps her hands on his shoulders and nods toward the bed in the corner. “Do you have some time before your next shift? You’re welcome to take a nap here if you’d like.”

Cas looks at the bed, all welcoming with its thick blanket and clean pillow, and nods gratefully. “Thank you.” He heads over to the bed, sits down, and unlaces his boots before sliding under the blanket and tucking it up under his chin.

For the first time in a long while, Cas falls asleep and stays that way just minutes after his head hits the pillow.

 

* * *

 

 

“Cas?  _ Caaaaaaas _ .”

Whoever’s standing above him and talking needs to  _ stop _ , Cas decides as he rolls over with a groan. He’s in the middle of his best sleep in months, and the last thing he needs is for someone to interrupt him.

“Mhmmmm,” he mumbles, keeping his eyes closed.

“When is your next shift?”  _ Hannah. _

“Not til tonight,” he says. “Eleven.”

“Cas!” she says, and this time he can feel her nudge him hard in the side. “Cas, it’s 11:15.”

_ That _ gets his attention. 

Cas shoots up like he’s been electrocuted, his eyes wild and panicked. “ _ Shit _ ,” he mutters, forcing his feet into his boots and stuffing the laces inside. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, “you were sleeping so well, and I didn’t know what time--”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he says, waving off her apology and stumbling to his feet. “I’ve gotta go, Hannah, but thank you. I’ll see you later.”

She gives him a small smile. “Don’t forget what we talked about, Cas.”

 

* * *

 

 

Cas stumbles through Station 1237, hoping that Balthazar hadn’t gotten impatient and alerted Michael or Alistair to his tardiness. He’s breathing hard and fast, trying to concentrate on not tripping over his own feet when the tent comes into view; he bursts through the entrance and causes Balthazar to almost fall out of the chair he’d been dozing off in. 

_ Oh thank god. _

“Je _ sus _ , Novak,” he says, fumbling to get himself more awake. “Warn a mate, will you?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Cas says quickly, peering over Balthazar’s shoulder at Winchester, who’s looking a bit more worse for wear. “Lost track of time.”

Balthazar shakes his head and waves off the apology. “Uneventful night,” he says. “This wanker’s harder to crack than I thought he’d be; no fun, either.” He passes Winchester and cuffs him on the back of the head before heading out of the tent. “I’ll fill you in after I get some sleep and some food in me, but no good stories, ‘m afraid.”

“As long as you both are in one piece,” Cas says. “Alistair would kill us if something happened to him that he wasn’t responsible for.”

Balthazar barks out a laugh. “Got that right.” He claps Cas on the shoulder. “Enjoy your quality time with ‘im.”

Cas nods and waits for Balthazar to leave the tent. “Good morning,” he says to Winchester absently, scrubbing a hand down his face once more to try and calm himself down.

“Took you long enough to get here, Sweet Cheeks.”

Cas looks up at that, but before he can fully comprehend what’s happening, Winchester is right up in front of him, and he feels himself being shoved backward hard, and he stumbles up against one of the poles holding up the tent. He makes to call for help, but Winchester is miles ahead of him--he presses his forearm into Cas’ throat and leans in hard, tilting his head curiously as Cas tries desperately to suck in air.

“Those ropes were tough, you were right about that. Spent all night working on ‘em,” Winchester says with a smirk, answering Cas’ unasked question, “and there was no way I was heading out without sayin’ goodbye to my favorite guard.” He pats Cas affectionately on the cheek. “This has been fun,” he continues, looking Cas up and down and flashing him a quick grin, “but the whole ‘being held captive’ thing isn’t really my style. Thanks for fixing this, though.” He points to his hairline with his free hand. “Would’ve been a bitch to run through the woods with an untreated head wound, huh?” He pats Cas on the cheek once more before digging his forearm in a little bit deeper.

Cas opens his mouth to protest, but nothing comes out except a weak gasp. Winchester doesn't seem to be deterred by this at all--he grabs Cas’ arm roughly and yanks him toward the chair and forces him down into it.

“Do me a favor--keep my seat warm, huh?” he asks. He flashes Cas a sly little grin that Cas hates himself for being turned on by, even more so when Winchester digs his knee into his chest to keep him in place before quickly maneuvering behind him and tying his wrists together behind the chair’s back. 

Cas winces as Winchester tightens the ropes around his wrists. Even though he doesn’t try to physically escape, he figures that maybe Winchester will be susceptible to a little bit of pleading. 

“You don’t have to do this,” he says, his desperation growing as Winchester finishing tying the knots. “Please, they’ll kill me if you--”

Winchester barks out a laugh. “They’re not gonna kill you,” he says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m gonna kill  _ them _ first.” He finishes tying the knots around Cas’ wrists, then takes a step back to admire his handiwork. “Not bad,” he murmurs. “Right? Impressive, if I do say so myself.” 

He crouches down and leans in close to Cas, as if he’s about to share some kind of top-secret information. “So, uh, I’m going to head out, and you’re going to stay here, and we’ll just go our separate ways, how does that sound?”

Cas stares at him, his eyes wide and pleading, and for a second, he thinks he might see the tiniest shred of doubt in Winchester’s own eyes, of second thoughts, of whether he’s doing the right thing. It’s gone just as fast as it appeared, though, and he flashes Cas another one of those brilliant grins before lifting up one of the back edges of the tent, scooting underneath, and disappearing into the early morning fog.


	3. Chapter 3

_ Goddamn it, Cas. _

Cas pulls desperately against the ropes that now held him to Winchester’s chair, his mind running wild with the flurry of activity from the past few minutes. How the fuck couldn’t he have seen this coming? He struggles for a few more seconds before letting his tense muscles relax, closing his eyes, and tilting his head back with a frustrated sigh.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

He considers calling for help but hesitates; whether it’s more because of fear of punishment for letting Winchester escape, or giving Winchester as much of a head start as possible, he can’t say. He pulls against the ropes a bit more, wincing as they dig into the delicate skin at his wrists. 

No, he’s doing exactly what Hannah told him not to, letting his feelings blur his judgment, inadvertently letting Winchester use them to his advantage. He’ll be mocked relentlessly for letting Winchester get the upper hand, but mockery’s been a constant in his life; what’s a little more?

“ _ Help! _ ” he yells, pulling against the ropes a bit more. “Somebody, help! Winchester’s loose!”

Cas keeps his pleas going for a few more minutes, growing more and more frustrated as each one goes unanswered. Finally, Samandriel pokes his head into the tent, his jaw drops, and he rushes to his side. “Cas, are you okay?” he asks, genuine concern in his voice. “What happened?”

While he’s working on the ropes, Lucifer, Raphael, and Gabe burst into the tent, and Lucifer’s got fire in his eyes. “Which way did he go?” Michael asks.

Cas shakes his head. “I don’t--he ambushed me and snuck underneath the back.”

Lucifer smacks his hand loud and hard against the table. “God _ damn _ it, Novak!” he growls before glancing at Gabe and Michael. “Let’s go. He can’t have gotten far.”

 

* * *

 

 

“He really fucked you up, huh, Cassie?” Balthazar asks, taking a sip of his drink. “Got any rope burns left over from that?”

Cas rolls his eyes and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “No, Balthazar.” 

“You’re lucky they caught him, mate. Otherwise I’d bet my life that Alistair’d have your head for breakfast.”

Cas nods stiffly. Gabe, Raphael, and Lucifer had been able to track Winchester down pretty quickly, and managed to grab him down near the River. He’s glad that Lucifer hadn’t found him alone; Cas is sure he would’ve drowned Winchester himself if the others hadn’t been there to keep him honest.

“I know. I’ll, uh, have to thank them for--”

“ _ Novak _ !”

It’s Michael’s voice, and he doesn’t sound happy. A small ball of anxiety starts to bubble up in his gut as Cas sets his plate down and gets up to head towards the tent where Winchester is being kept. Apparently he’s not moving fast enough, though, because after another second, Michael’s voice comes booming through the camp again. “Get your ass in here, Novak!”

He picks up the pace and hurries into the tent, wondering what he could have done to make Michael so angry. For a second, he wonders if he could be upset about Winchester escaping, but that wouldn’t make any sense; they’d gotten him back before he made it too far, and he can’t be blamed for Winchester’s somehow managing to free himself and forcing him to take his place, right? He’d done all he could; he’d called for help as soon as was possible.

Well, almost.

Even though he’d ultimately decided to rat Winchester out, Cas still felt good about his decision to wait before alerting anyone to Winchester’s escape. He’d earned himself some good karma points at least, and he thought of the action--or lack thereof--as his own tiny rebellion and protest against the war.

He felt good about it right until the second he feels the belt snap against his spine.

Cas tries to bite back his cry of pain, but doesn’t do a very good job, wincing at both the pain and the way his voice wobbles. “Michael, p-ple--”

“You let him escape,” Michael says softly, menacingly. “You let. Him. Escape.” He punctuates each word with another snap of his belt, and Cas squeezes his eyes shut against the tears springing up at their corners. “Do you know how  _ easy  _ it could’ve been for us to lose him completely? Consider yourself lucky that Lucifer and the others noticed him before it was too late, you incompetent piece of shit.”

“I’m s--” Cas cries out again, and this time he can’t hold himself up; he collapses onto the ground and presses his forehead into the damp grass, lacing his fingers together behind his head and gritting his teeth against the pain. The belt keeps coming, striking against his back and causing his shirt to split into strips, and once it stops, when Cas finally dares to think it’s over, Michael kicks him fast and hard in the gut. He gasps in pain and falls onto his side in the fetal position, and before he can try and stop it, he pukes.

Michael makes a disgusted sound and steps over Cas on his way to leave the tent. “Consider that your wake-up call,” he says. “You're on thin ice, Novak. Don't let it happen again.”

He stays still, making no sounds except for a cough or two, until he hears each set of feet leave the tent. 

_ Fuck.  _ He shouldn't have done that, it wasn't worth it, not even for those goddamn green eyes.

As he lays there, Cas can feel eyes on his back, and he bunches up the grass under him into his fists, chest heaving as he tries to pull himself together. He spits in a last-ditch attempt to get the vomit taste out of his mouth, then swallows hard before looking up.

Winchester is staring at him.

_ Great _ . Cas pounds a fist into the grass. It had been bad enough to get his ass handed to him in the first place, but having had an audience, an audience made up of Dean Winchester, no less, makes it sting even more. He glances up at him, but instead of the amusement or satisfaction Cas had been expecting, he’s met instead with anger, and maybe even a little bit of shock. Cas glares at him as he gets shakily to his feet.

“Get your jabs in now,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “because I’m not in the mood to deal with it later, and I won’t put up with it.”

“I’m sorry.”

The words come fast and soft out of Winchester’s mouth, and take Cas by surprise.

“You--can you repeat that?”

Winchester shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “I didn’t think they’d do that to you,” he says lamely, unable to look Cas in the eye. “That's why I, I figured that if I tied you up, it'd look like you, I don't know, like you struggled or some shit and I had to fight you to get out. That you tried to keep me here. If I left you here or just clocked you, that wouldn't be enough. But I guess that wasn't, either.” He takes a breath, then looks up at him apologetically. “You've got no reason to believe me, but I just wanted out. I didn't want you to get hurt.”

Cas stares at Winchester, incredulous. “You’re telling me,” he says slowly, “that you didn’t think I’d get any kind of repercussion from the most notorious captive we’ve ever had escaping under my watch?” He laughs bitterly. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“I didn’t think they’d  _ torture  _ you!” Winchester says exasperatedly. “Maybe smack you around a bit, chew you out, but not  _ that _ .” He takes a deep breath. “We don’t do that.”

“We?”

“The Battalion,” Winchester says, and his eyes are back on the ground again.

“You wouldn’t be punished if you let a hostage escape on your watch.” Cas grins humorlessly. “Forgive me for not believing a word you’re saying.”

“ _ I _ wasn’t!” Winchester insists, and  _ this  _ gets Cas’ attention. Winchester snaps his mouth shut almost immediately, trying to act like nothing happened, but Cas has no plans of letting that slide.

“Someone escaped?” Cas says softly. “Under your watch?”

Winchester squeezes his eyes closed, and Cas takes a second to look him over. He’s not sure how it’s possible, but he looks in worse shape than the day he was brought in: his skin is smudged with even more deep purple bruises, and there’s dried blood crusted under his nose that definitely wasn’t there before he escaped. There’s more rope coiled around his ankles this time around, and instead of just his wrists secured behind his back, someone also added rope around his chest, securing him to the chair even tighter.

“It was a long time ago,” he says, keeping his eyes shut. “I wasn’t quick enough, and got a concussion for it, but that was from him trying to get away from me, not my lieutenant or whoever the fuck that asshole was who just went to town on you.”

“So what  _ did  _ happen?”

“It’s not like nobody was pissed,” he says, “but I didn’t get my ass handed to me like you just did.”

“Was he found? Brought back?”

Winchester shakes his head. “Not a trace. Sometimes I still get hit with a dizzy spell from the hit he gave me, but never saw him again otherwise. I thought you’d be okay,” Winchester continues, finally opening his eyes again, and the tone of his voice makes Cas believe that Winchester really did think that. “But--” he chuckles in disbelief “--you all are a hell of a lot more ruthless than we thought.”

“You’re one to be calling someone else ruthless.”

Winchester’s eyes dart up and lock with his at that, but he stays silent, and Cas assumes that the conversation is over. He decides that now would be a good time to take his leave and try to put himself together, maybe ask Hannah to check him out for any bruised ribs or chances of scarring, so he heads for the exit to the tent. He’s about to get to his feet when Winchester says something else to pique his interest.

“I know you waited, by the way.” Cas looks at him curiously, but before he can ask what the hell Winchester is talking about, he continues. “I’m not that fast, and I didn’t gag you--I would’ve heard if you started yelling for help right away. but you didn’t.” He pauses. “I don’t know  _ why _ you didn’t, but thanks all the same.”

Cas rolls his eyes, his frustration at himself for not doing just that, for not saving himself the pain and humiliation of this afternoon, burning bright in his chest. He gets to his feet and begins making his way to the entrance, determined to ignore whatever else Winchester has to say, because if Cas knows one thing about him for sure, it’s that Winchester likes the sound of his own voice.

“I’m sure you’ve got a whole list of names you all are calling me, but just in case you’re looking for one to add to the collection, my name’s Dean.”

Cas stops in his tracks and slowly turns around, unsure exactly of how to respond. Winchester--Dean--is looking at him with a half-hearted little smile, and Cas can’t decide what exactly he’s expecting him to do with that information.

“I--”

“And thank you, too,” he says quickly, before Cas can get any more words out. “For dealing with me and my stupid head when I was a dick, by the way. ‘Preciate it. For real, this time.”

Cas narrows his eyes and huffs out a humorless laugh, thinking back to earlier that day when Dean had thanked him for the same act before leaving him tied to a chair. 

“Someone will be in to take my place for the time being, while I’m gone,” he says. “Try not to ambush them, too.”

 

* * *

 

 

Cas manages to evade most questions from Hannah while she checks him over, but his poker face is awful; she can tell there’s something else on his mind, but Cas doesn’t even know how he feels himself, so he refuses to try to make sense of it to her. 

“I’m here if you decide you want to talk, Cas,” she reminds him as he leaves the medical tent with a freshly bandaged back and a cold compress pressed against his ribs.

He nods and gives her a tired smile. “Thanks.”

Cas replays Dean’s conversation, his reaction to Dean being beaten, over and over in his mind until he gets to his tent, and even more when he eases himself into bed, careful to lie on his stomach. He gingerly pulls his blankets up over him and rests them on his back as gently as possible, then tucks his arms under his chin before resting on his pillow.

Dean had seemed genuinely upset back there, almost like he was in more pain than Cas (which is impossible, if Cas is being honest), but Cas is still hesitant to think any redeeming thoughts about the person who tied him up and left him at the mercy of his higher-ups just a few hours earlier.

But Dean also--

And that’s when it hits Cas: he’s started calling him  _ Dean _ . Not Winchester,  _ Dean _ . Cas sighs and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. Dean seems like a different person, not at all like the defiant, angry Winchester of old, and Cas’ head is pounding as he resumes the struggle of trying to figure out if Dean Winchester is someone he can take comfort in knowing.

The decision comes much easier than he expected.

 

* * *

 

 

Michael and Alistair are quick to tell Cas that they don’t trust him watching Dean, that he’s not competent enough to handle it; but they’re even quicker to give the job back to him a few days later because, according to them, everyone else has more potential when it comes to being trained for future battles, and they can’t afford to miss training, whereas Cas, well,  _ can _ .

The morning he’s supposed to return to watch duty, Cas almost throws up from anxiety. The idea of seeing Dean again makes his stomach do flips, and as much as he tries, he still can’t figure out if it’s because of anticipation or dread. He slowly forces himself out of bed and makes his way to the tent, taking a deep breath before pulling the flap aside and stepping inside.

Balthazar looks up at his entrance, and even though he doesn’t say anything, the surprise is clear on his face. “That time again, Novak?” he asks, getting to his feet.

Cas nods without a word, and Balthazar claps him on the shoulder as he passes. “Good luck.”

Dean waits for Balthazar to leave the tent before flashing Cas a crooked smile. “Well, hey,” he says. “Didn’t think they’d let you see me again.”

“They didn’t want you to,” Cas says stonily, making a beeline for the chair and dropping down into it, kicking his feet up on the table in an attempt to be casual. “But this is my job,” he says, conveniently leaving out the part that nobody thinks he’s good for anything else around here.

“Huh. Welcome back, then,” Dean says, then when Cas doesn’t reply, sighs before going silent.

If Cas thought the silence between him and Dean was awkward before the whole escape incident, he had no idea how much worse it could--and would--get. After the initial attempted smalltalk, Dean seems to take the hint and doesn’t even look at him; every time Cas decides to glance over, he’s looking down or has his eyes closed with his head tilted back (which provides a great view of the column of his throat, but that’s beside the point), not even trying to sneak a glance at Cas.

He lasts about five minutes before needing to cut into the quiet.

“How close were you?” Cas asks, and Dean looks up at him, confused. “I mean, to getting out. How close had you gotten before--” He cuts himself off before he can finish the sentence.  _ Before I ratted you out. _

“Relax,” Dean says, giving Cas a small, humorless smile that Cas takes as a wordless form of forgiveness. “I would’ve done the same thing if you’d escaped under my watch. No hard feelings, Handsome.”

Cas’ cheeks are on fire at that, and as his heartbeat quickens, he tries to figure out if Dean had meant it as sarcasm, or a genuine compliment. Dean doesn’t seem to think anything of it, though, so Cas assumes the former while hoping that his blush wasn’t obvious enough for Dean to comment on it.

“You want the real answer, or the one I’m gonna tell my little brother if I get out of here?” Cas’ stomach clenches at Dean’s choice of words-- _ if _ , not  _ when _ \--but another part of Dean’s sentence grabs his attention even more.

“I--you have a brother?”

“What, I’m not allowed to?”

“No, I mean, ever since I joined, and especially every since you got here, everyone’s been painting you as this... _ monster _ or something. All the things they said about you, how many people you’ve killed, and how you’ve acted, I just…” Cas’ voice trails off before he finishes with, “I couldn’t imagine you having someone you care about.”

Dean looks at him, his eyes dull and unimpressed. “I don’t get my rocks off from killing people, if that’s what you mean,” he says. “I do it so my little brother doesn’t have to. To protect him.” He sighs. “You probably know we don’t exactly have the most  _ powerful _ army out there.”

Cas nods. The Battalion is much smaller than the Company, and it’s well known that while the Company is brimming with recruits, the Battalion regularly struggles to fill its ranks. It had gotten so bad that a draft had been instated, something that’s practically unheard of in the Company.

“Everyone’s supposed to join, or at least start training, once they turn sixteen. My grandpa did it, so did my mom, which is where she met my dad, and then they started yet another little Battalion family, getting me and my brother ready to join from the day we could walk.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat again and takes a deep breath. “But then some shit happened, and--” another breath “--someone over here killed her, and we never saw her again. Not even her body.”

The words hit Cas like a punch to the stomach. He opens his mouth to apologize, but then senses that Dean isn’t done, so he waits.

“My dad went nuts after that, getting Sammy and me ready for training day at sixteen. He still had four years to go when I hit it, but it was so goddamn clear that Sam didn’t want it, and never would. I mean, none of us want it, but I saw him puke once after seeing a dead squirrel Dad had shot in front of the house; I couldn’t imagine him having to deal with the shit that I see--saw, whatever--on a daily basis.

“I tried everything--bartering, bribing, hell, fighting a few times, but I couldn’t find a single way to get Sam out of service. He told me to stop, that everyone had to do it, but I don’t know.” He looks up and gives Cas a humorless grin and as much of a shrug as he could manage. “People say I’m a stubborn son of a bitch, as I’m sure you’ll attest to now, huh?”

The side of Cas’ lips tilt up slightly in a small smile, which he’s pleased to see makes Dean laugh. 

“But,” Dean continues, “I finally figured out a way to get him out of it. Myself.”

Cas’ brows furrow together, and he drops his feet onto the ground, looking at Dean. “What?”

“Made a promise. I might not like it, but I’m damn good at this shit, and I know it might not look it on your end, but I’ve protected a lot of people, people I’ve known since I was a kid. If I promised to stay in for as long as possible--basically until the war’s over or I get killed--they’d bypass Sam. So I did.”

He’s in this for the rest of his life. Cas’ stomach drops out even  _ thinking _ about that; he can’t imagine having it be his reality. “What did your father think of all this, of Sam not joining?” he finally asks. “From what you’ve said, he seems, uh, it seems like this means a lot to him.”

Dean sighs, and Cas can tell that if he weren’t tied up, he’d wave his hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter; he offed himself when I was seventeen. Found him on the floor of his bedroom one day after he didn’t show up to work and people came callin’.”

“Jesus,” Cas breathes.

Dean sighs and chuckles. “Fun, huh?” 

He’s treating it with too much humor and casualness, but when Cas manages to catch a glimpse into Dean’s eyes, he can tell that the casual emotions are feigned. Dean’s eyes are blank and faraway when he talks about it, and Cas can almost see the bright green of his irises fade as he goes into more detail, as if he’s still trying to compartmentalize all of it, even all these years later.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas says simply. “That’s horrible.”

“Fucking sucked, yeah.”

He’s about to try and change the subject when a thought hits him. “Sam,” he repeats slowly, then looks at Dean. “He was the one you were talking about in your dream, wasn’t he? The one you were scared we’d found out about?”

Dean looks confused for a second, but then he chuckles humorlessly. “Forgot about that,” he says softly, “but yeah. That’s him. I was, I thought you had managed to get him, too, somehow, and I--” He shakes his head. “I wasn’t about to let that happen.”

Suddenly, Dean’s reaction makes complete sense. “I’m glad he’s safe,” Cas says.

“Yeah. Me, too.”

When Cas feels like he can talk without his voice inadvertently cracking and betraying him, he asks, “What is Sam doing now?”

Dean grins. “Everything,” he says, and Cas is quick to notice the pride in Dean’s voice. “Kid’s a genius. He helps out everywhere, but no combat. Not now, not ever, even though he’s a fucking sasquatch. He’d terrify anyone who saw him, even if he was on your side.” He looks down and grins again, and with that one small action, Cas realizes just how much Dean cares about his brother.

“I wish I had a sibling,” Cas says, and Dean laughs.

“You can share mine,” he says. “Kid’s got enough heart to be everyone’s brother.”

It’s Cas’ turn to laugh this time. “What’s the nicest thing he’s ever done for you?”

Dean pauses and furrows his brows together, and for a second, Cas wonders if he’s crossed a line, if their relationship--or whatever the hell this is that’s going on between them--isn’t at the point of sharing family stories yet, but then Dean grins again.

“Shit, there was this one time, years ago when Sam was a kid. We were heading back from school and…”

Cas stops actively listening a few sentences into Dean’s story, opting instead to let Dean’s voice wash over him, the different inflections it takes as he talks. He imagines that Dean would talk with his hands, use grand, sweeping gestures to enunciate his points further, and the thought makes him smile. 

He hopes Raphael forgets to come take his place for dinner.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s during the middle of yet another night when Cas can’t sleep that he figures out how he can help Dean. Helping him to escape--or even just letting him do so--is still out of the question, but he wants to do  _ something _ , anything to make this easier on Dean or his brother. As he lies awake in his cot, listening to the rain pounding against the canvas tent and the wind howl around him, he figures out what he’ll do.

Palming around for a candle and pack of matches, he quickly lights the wick and sets it on top of one of his books before digging under his cot for his notebook and a pencil. Crowding in close to the flame, he flips the notebook open to a clean page and starts to write.

_ Hello Sam, _

_ You don’t know me, but my name is Castiel Novak. I’m writing to let you know that your brother, Dean, is alive and in my charge. He is currently a hostage in our camp. I can only do so much without being killed myself, but he’s spoken of you with great concern, and I wanted to make you aware of his status. You two seem very close; I envy that. Dean is not aware that I’m writing to you--I’m not even sure this letter will get to you safely--but I promise that I will do everything I can to keep him safe. _

 

_ -Castiel _

When Cas finishes the letter, he leans back and studies it for a few seconds before folding and unfolding it a few times.  _ Good,  _ he thinks,  _ this is good _ . He’s about to tuck the letter under his mattress to bring to the post tomorrow when his stomach seizes up with worry.

How the  _ fuck  _ was he going to get a letter out of the Company and to the Battalion--to the  _ Winchesters _ , no less? Cas sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth and stares at the letter in his hand.

It was going to be a long night.

 

* * *

 

 

Cas’ hands are shaking as he makes his way across Station 1237 to the post tent. Besides Hannah, Samandriel is probably the most reasonable person Cas knows, and he’s hoping his decency will be able to help Cas out here.

“You can do this,” he mutters to himself. He takes a deep breath, then pulls the tent flap open and steps cautiously inside.

Samandriel looks up when he hears Cas enter and gives him a kind smile. “Morning, Cas,” he says cheerfully, tapping a small pile of mail on the table. “How’re you feeling?”

“Better, Samandriel, thank you.”

“That’s good.” He puts the mail to the side and gives Cas his full attention. “Have something to mail?” he asks, nodding toward the letter in Cas’ hand.

“Uh, yes,” Cas says, stepping forward and holding the letter out. “This has to be sent to the Battalion. To Sa--to Winchester’s family.”

Samandriel stares at him with wide eyes. “ _ What _ ?”

Cas’s heartbeat quickens, and he gives him his best reassuring smile. “Please, Samandriel, it’s just--”

Samandriel laughs in disbelief and shakes his head, walking over to the back of the tent and grabbing another pile of letters to be sorted. “Winchester must’ve hit you in the head the other day. You’re insane.”

“Hear me out,” Cas insists, his voice taking on an air of urgency that both he and Samandriel are surprised by. “He’s got a little brother,” he says, hoping to appeal to Samandriel’s protectiveness over his own little brother.

“How do you know that?”

“He told me.”

Samandriel scoffs. “And I’m sure he wasn’t lying.”

“He wasn’t!” Samandriel starts at the force in Cas’ voice, taken aback. Cas sighs and runs a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself. “Listen, I know he’s probably the most hated person in the entire Company, but I just, I want to do this for hi--his brother. He hasn’t done anything wrong; he shouldn’t have to be punished for this.”

Samandriel stays silent, but Cas can see his face start to soften a little, and kicks his pleading into high gear. “ _ Please _ , Samandriel,” he says. “I know it’s risky, but if you get caught, tell them it was me. Tell them I threatened you or something; I’ll take the fall.”

He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck uncertainly. “What does he have on you, Novak,” he finally asks, “that you’d be willing to put yourself in harm’s way for him?”

Cas is silent. He thinks he knows, he’s almost one hundred percent sure that he knows now, but he still can’t bring himself to say it aloud. “Nothing,” he finally says. “He doesn’t know I’m doing this.”

Samandriel raises his eyebrows and purses his lips, glancing back over his shoulder at the piles of mail. Finally, after a few seconds of thought, he reaches over and grabs a small basket of mail, and drops it down onto the table. “Hurry up.”

Cas looks at him, confused. “I don’t--”

“Before someone  _ comes _ , Cas!” he hisses, peeking over Cas’ shoulder to make sure no one is nearby. “Put it in the basket. I’ll feel better if I don’t have to touch it.”

Cas wants to laugh at Samandriel’s logic, but he’s also doing him a massive favor, so he quickly does what he asks, and Samandriel mixes up the mail in the basket before shoving it back into its place.

“Thank you, Samandriel,” Cas says earnestly. He wants to rush around the table and give him a hug, but restrains himself; Samandriel looks unsettled enough as it is. “Thank you.”

“It’s for his brother,” Samandriel says, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself instead of Cas. 

“He’ll appreciate it,” Cas says. “I do, too.”

Samandriel nods slowly. “I hope so,” he says softly.

Cas hopes so, too.


	4. Chapter 4

Cas still has twenty minutes left before he needs to take over for Raphael, but he’s got nothing else to do and can’t sleep, and if he’s being perfectly honest with himself, he misses Dean. He misses seeing the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the deep, rich sound of his laugh, all these things Cas hadn’t noticed when Dean had been covered in blood and bruises. He likes them, and he wants more of them in his life. 

As he approaches the tent, he can hear some kind of muffled shouting, and at first, he assumes it’s just Lucifer giving Dean his daily assuage of verbal abuse. He hates the idea of someone talking that way to Dean, but there’s only so much he can do to stop from giving himself away as a sympathizer of the enemy.

Cas grins wanly to himself as he wonders what his parents would be more ashamed of--him as a medic, or him as a boyfriend of the enemy. The fact that the answer isn’t a clear-cut one is unsettling, to say the least, and Cas decides to push it to the back of his mind, something to think about during his next sleepless night.

Suddenly, Raphael pokes his head out of the tent, and Cas doesn’t miss the way his eyes widen when he sees Cas. Cas gives him a wave and is more than a little unsettled by the fact that Raphael takes a second before waving back, a fake, forced smile on his face before he ducks back inside.

The shouting is getting louder as he gets closer to the tent, and unconsciously, Cas finds himself picking up the pace. Before he can get inside, though, Lucifer and Michael burst out of the tent together, snickering and clapping each other on the back as they walk.

Lucifer notices Cas first and grins, nodding towards him.

“He’s all yours, Novak,” Lucifer says, clapping Cas on the back as he exits the tent with everyone else. Cas keeps his eyes on them for a few seconds before turning back inside to face Dean, and his brows furrow together.

“Why is he gagged?”

There’s a quick burst of laughter as Michael shouts over his shoulder, “Wouldn’t keep his mouth shut!”

Cas takes a deep breath before closing the tent flap and walking over to Dean, who immediately averts his gaze. His face is flushed, the thick cloth that’s been forced between his teeth digging into the edges of his mouth. When Cas moves to untie the knot at the base of his neck, Dean flinches away and for the first time, Cas can see the fear in his eyes and the last traces of tears streaking his cheeks.

“Dean,” Cas says softly, cupping Dean’s cheek in one hand, running his thumb over his cheekbone. He makes slow, exaggerated movements as he goes to remove the gag, and Dean stays still. He drops the piece of cloth to the ground and keeps his eyes on Dean, trying to get him to say something.

“What happened?” he finally asks, looking Dean up and down slowly, trying to find something out of place. “Are you okay?”

Dean stays silent for a few seconds, then finally spits out, “Fine.” His voice cracks when he says it, and Cas raises his eyebrows. 

“Are you sure?” Cas studies him for a few more seconds, then notices the fresh blood on Dean’s shirt. His eyes widen and as his eyes trail over the rest of Dean’s body, he notices that his belt is undone, too. His heart sinking and alarm bursting through his chest, he looks back up at Dean, who’s got his eyes closed. 

“They didn’t…”

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” Dean repeats flatly, opening his eyes and staring at Cas, daring him to say he wasn’t.

“Dean, I don't--”

“Shut up,” Dean snaps.

Cas’ mouth drops open before he can stop it. “Dean--”

“They didn’t do it,” he finally says, refusing to meet Cas’ gaze. “They were going to--it’s all they kept talking about--but they didn’t. Because you got here earlier than you were supposed to, according to them.” He pauses, then swallows hard before adding, “So I guess I should be thanking you.”

Cas bites on his lower lip and squeezes his eyes closed, wondering just how close the whole situation was to unfolding. It makes him sick just thinking about it, and he decides to do the best thing he can to try and make Dean feel better.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know it doesn’t help, but I’m sorry.”

Dean shakes his head, but still won’t meet Cas’ eye. “It didn’t happen,” he says, sounding almost as if he’s trying to convince himself of that fact just as much as he’s trying to convince Cas. 

“No, it didn’t,” Cas agrees, “and I’m going to make sure it never does.” He pauses before adding, “Did they try anything else?”

It’s clear from his facial expression that Dean doesn’t want to tell him anything, that he’s thrown his walls back up and good goddamn luck to anybody who wants to try and get over them, but Cas isn’t having any of it. “I can help you, Dean,” he says. “I promise. Did they hurt you?” When Dean still refuses to answer, Cas tries to go a more specific route. “What’s the blood on your shirt from? I know it’s new.”

Dean sighs, and just when Cas doesn’t think he’s going to respond, he says, “Fingers.”

“Fingers?”

“That’s what I said.”

Cas hesitantly makes his way around Dean’s chair and starts to notice the miniscule drops of dark red staining the grass behind Dean. His stomach drops as he gets closer, and when he sees Dean’s fingers and the thin, sharpened blade that’s been thrown onto the ground--Cas is sure he’s seen one just like it in the medical tent, so it must have been stolen; there’s no way Hannah would’ve lent those out to anyone other than Cas--he feels like he’s about to throw up. 

The skin underneath Dean’s fingernails is bleeding, and it doesn’t take long for Cas to put two and two together. He picks up the blade with two fingers and measures it against one of Dean’s nails--it’s just narrow enough to slide underneath and dig into the fragile skin, and with that comparison, Cas knows that’s exactly what they did.

“Jesus,” he breathes, dropping the blade again with a grimace.

Dean chuckles humorlessly. “You missed a hell of a party, man.”

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Cas says softly, trying hard to ignore the hiss of pain from Dean as he gently lifts one of his hands to examine it more closely. 

“Always the innovators, your pals, there.”

“They’re not my pals,” Cas says bitterly as he starts making a mental checklist of what he’d need to clean and disinfect Dean’s fingers.  

“I stand corrected,” Dean says, then adding a quick, “Fuckfuck _ fuck” _ when Cas jostles his hand too much.

“Sorry,” Cas says absently. “You didn’t lose any fingernails, so that’s good news.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Dean says sarcastically, and Cas is suddenly hit with how similar this scenario is to one of the first times they met, when Dean had referred to him as Clara Barton. 

“Doesn’t this-- _ shit _ \--doesn’t this remind you of that time you fixed my head, even though I was being a dick to you?”

Cas laughs at the absurdity of the conversation, and the uncanniness of Dean thinking the exact same thing as him. “It does, actually.”

“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”

“You’ve gotta stop getting hurt for us to accomplish that.”

“Hey, I could stay injury-free if I wasn’t stuck in this goddamn chair with nothing but my quick wit and expertise in insults to keep me company.”

Cas chuckles again and shakes his head before getting to his feet. “You should be fine,” he says. “I’m going to get some more alcohol and maybe some cotton or gauze to try and stop up the rest of the bleeding. Try not to provoke anyone while I’m gone, please.”

“No promises.”

Cas throws Dean a sideways glance and a smirk over his shoulder, which Dean returns in the form of a lazy little grin.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks.”

Cas relaxes at that, and allows his smile to take up a bit more space on his face. “You’re welcome, Dean. I’ll be back soon.”

 

* * *

 

 

_ Hello Sam, _

_ Everyone at camp is realizing just how feisty your brother is. Even though he’s technically our captive, he still manages to make a few of my fellow soldiers nervous; I think he takes great pride in that. He is still unaware of these letters, but he mentioned in conversation today that he misses you, and that he hopes you’re well. _

_ I hope these are arriving to you safely, Sam. _

_ -Castiel _

 

* * *

 

 

Amazingly enough, Dean seems to be doing better. His fingers are healing up nicely with no signs of infection, and he’s not as skittish when people come near him. He’s told Cas more stories about Sam, so many and in such vivid detail that Cas feels like he knows him.

“I’ve heard sheepdogs are wonderful pets,” Cas says, when Dean explains that Sam loves dogs, and wants one terribly, but that they can’t decide on a suitable breed.

“We don’t have any sheep, though.”

“Sheepdogs don’t need to--”

Before Cas can finish his sentence, though, someone barges into the tent without even the slightest hint of a greeting, and Cas’ heart jumps into his throat at the thought of someone walking in on him conversing so easily and casually with the enemy.

“Balthazar?” Cas asks, surprised. “What’re you doing here? Your shift doesn’t--”

“Official business, Novak. Direct from Alistair,” he says, looking more solemn than Cas has seen him in years. He glances over at Dean, who looks just as confused as Cas feels, as well as defensive.

Dean’s whole body goes stiff when Michael shoves someone else into the tent, a tall man with dirty hair and a blindfold tied around his eyes. His wrists are tied behind his back, and he stumbles forward as Michael keeps shoving him.

“What is this?” Cas asks.

“Caught him scouting around the camp’s perimeter,” Michael says with a scowl. “Probably looking for  _ you _ .” He walks over and cuffs Dean hard on the back of the head.

“Ash.” The word sounds like it gets caught in Dean’s throat, and Cas’ heart seizes in his chest as he realizes that this isn’t just some random soldier Michael found; he’s one of Dean’s friends. He’s tall and skinny, with dirty, stringy hair that hangs in front of his face. A blindfold has been tied over his eyes, which Michael promptly pulls down and lets hang around his neck like some kind of morbid necklace.

The new captive--Ash--looks at Dean and gives him a small grin. “Dean-o,” he says. “Good to know they’re takin’ care of you, man.” 

Dean stares at Ash, then looks over to Michael with fire in his eyes. “Let him go,” he says coldly. “This has nothing to do with him.”

Michael laughs harshly, with more ice than Cas thought was possible. “It’s his own damn fault he got caught,” he says, kicking out at the backs of Ash’s legs, forcing him to drop to his knees. “Anyone looking to help you out deserves whatever they get, you fucking piece of shit.”

Dean’s eyes widen, and he starts pulling desperately against the ropes holding him to the chair. “Let him go, you son of a bitch,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “Or I swear to god--”

Michael reaches behind him and grabs a knife, which glints in the small amount of light in the tent. He studies its blade for a few seconds before glancing at Dean and flashing him a devilish grin. “Or what?” he asks coyly. “What’re you planning to do to save your friend while you’re all tied up and helpless? Because honestly, I’d love to know.”

With that, he leans forward and presses the blade against Ash’s throat, which sends shock waves down Cas’ spine. He wouldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this. It’s a dream--that’s it, that’s gotta be it. There’s no way this is happening. 

The noise of the world around him starts to fade away, replaced by a high-pitched buzzing sound that he’s only heard after gunshots went off too close to his head during target practice. He looks around helplessly, can see Dean struggling as hard as he can against his restraints, and the clear delight Michael is taking in dragging this whole thing out. He nicks a tiny cut into Ash’s neck, and Dean yells. He yells, and yells, and yells loud enough for Michael to get annoyed, because he says something and motions for Raphael to step forward. Raphael rears back and punches Dean hard in the stomach, effectively shutting him up, and Cas can’t move, can’t speak, can’t force himself to do anything about it.

All he can do is stare at the scene that’s unfolding in front of him, at the way Dean gasps and tries to fight through the pain, pulling hard against the ropes, at the way Michael presses the blade deeper and deeper against Ash’s throat, and the way Ash won’t move, won’t look anywhere in particular but just keeps muttering something under his breath.

Cas snaps back into reality just in time to hear what Ash is saying--”It’s okay, Dean, it’s okay”--and then the sickening sound of Michael’s blade slicing through Ash’s throat, and the anguished noise Dean makes just before Raphael claps his hand over his mouth.

Ash’s body falls to the ground in a heap, blood rapidly streaming from his neck and pooling underneath him. Dean stares at the scene, unblinking and unmoving, his eyes wide and wet and stunned, before Raphael removes his hand from Dean’s mouth.

Cas stands rooted to the spot, but he can feel his mouth hanging open, can feel the way his knees are quickly turning to rubber and will be unable to support him soon if he doesn’t find something to lean on. He watches as Michael casually wipes his blade on the inside of his coat before depositing it back into its sheath, then nodding at Raphael, who works with Balthazar to drag Ash’s body out of the tent.

“Remember that, Winchester,” Michael says menacingly. “I’m not afraid to do that again, to  _ anyone  _ from your camp who comes to try and save you.” He turns to Cas. “See you at dinner, Novak,” he says, then exits the tent himself.

Dean and Cas stay there in silence, death wrapping around them in a stranglehold. The smell and tang of copper is prevalent in the air, and Cas drops into his chair, stunned. When he next manages to look up, Dean’s mouth is open, but he’s got his head down, staring at the red-stained grass.

“I’m sorry.” The words sound fake and placating, and Cas wishes he could shove them back into his throat the second they leave his mouth.

Dean won’t look at him; Cas can see his shoulders heave in a long, deep sigh.

“This is my fault,” he says, speaking to no one.

“No,” Cas says, anxious to prove Dean wrong without really knowing how he’d be able to. “Dean, none of this was your fault.”

“Did you not see what just happened?” Dean snaps, glaring at Cas with wide, wet eyes. “He’s--he’s fucking--” He trails off, staring at the blood staining the grass, the trail of it that leads out of the tent from Balthazar and Raphael dragging Ash’s body away. 

“Dean…”

“Because he tried to help me.” Dean hangs his head, and Cas can tell he’s trying to hide the way his shoulders are beginning to shake from crying. “He tried to help me, and now he’s dead, and what the fuck am I still doing here?  _ I  _ should’ve been the one who got dragged out of here, not him. Not him.”

Cas opens his mouth and tries to offer some other words of condolence to Dean, but nothing he can think of sounds right, or strong enough, or like it’ll make even the slightest difference. “I’m sorry, Dean.” 

The words sound better this time, and Cas can’t decide why. But even though that remains a mystery, he tries to run with it. “This isn’t fair, Dean, and I’m sorry it had to be this way. I’m sorry you had to see that, and I’m sorry you think it’s your fault, but please, I need you to believe that it’s not. It’s not. It’s Michael’s fault, it’s Alistair’s fault, it’s the war’s fault, but it’s absolutely not yours.” He crouches down and places a hand on each of Dean’s shoulders, trying to get him to look up at him. “Please, Dean. I can’t imagine how hard it is to lose a loved one, a friend. I want to be there for you. I need to be there for you. But I need you to know that this isn’t your fault.”

They stay that way in silence for what seems like hours, Cas’ hands on Dean’s shoulders, Cas staring at the crown of Dean’s head because Dean refuses to look up, when finally, Cas feels a weight drop down on one of his shoulders. He jumps at first, startled, but then realizes that the weight is Dean’s head, and that he’s leaning on Cas. He can feel Dean’s shoulders start to shake even more under his hands, and before he can think about it, Cas pulls himself close, knowing that Dean can’t do the same, and wraps him in something as close to a hug as he can get. They stay that way for one minute, two, three--as long as Dean needs to.

And for the first time, Cas doesn’t care if someone comes in and catches them.

In fact, he almost wants them to.

 

* * *

 

 

_ Dear Sam, _

_ Dean is doing well, or as well as can be expected. It calms him down to talk about you, and I like it when he’s calm, so we talk about you a lot. He really loves you, Sam, and I hope he’s able to return to you soon. _

_ -Castiel _

 

* * *

 

 

“Tell me more about Sam,” Cas says.

Dean gives him a sideways glance and smirks. “Jesus, Cas, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you liked him more than me.”

“It relaxes you to talk about him,” Cas says, shrugging as he toes the dirt underneath his boots into a tiny mound. “And it’s nice when you’re relaxed. Not scared.”

Dean shakes his head, but Cas catches the small smile he trains at the ground. “What d’you wanna know?” he finally asks after a few seconds.

“What’s his favorite thing to do?”

Dean barks out a laugh. “Reading,” he says without any hesitation. “He’s read every book in our house at least twice. I remember waking up one morning and all the candles in the house being melted down to the wicks; Sammy’d been up all night reading. Dad wasn’t too happy about that.”

“I miss books,” Cas says, more sadness in his voice than he’d originally intended.

Dean sighs. “Yeah.” He fidgets again, then looks up at Cas. “How long’ve you been doing this?”

Cas’ lips part a little, but he doesn’t answer. He knows the answer--one year, three months, 10 days--but the longer Dean’s eyes are on him, the more he realizes that he wants to keep them there.

“A year,” he finally says. “And a few months.” Dean raises his eyebrows, and Cas can’t tell if he’s impressed or surprised. “What about you?”

“Four.” Dean looks down again, and his foot jerks against the bindings, as if he has an itch somewhere he can’t reach.

“Four months?”

“Four  _ years _ .” 

Cas’ eyes widen, and Dean finally looks up, his eyes sad. “Even though we all do it, it’s not exactly how I pictured my entire life going.”

His entire life-- _ Dean thinks he’s going to die here. _ He thinks he won’t have a chance to do anything else, to see the end of this war so he can stop being a soldier, to be anything _ but  _ a soldier, and the worst thing to Cas is that he can’t even guarantee that Dean’s wrong.

Cas has a sudden urge to tell Dean everything, and opens his mouth to respond--to tell Dean that he’ll survive this, that Cas will make sure of it; that he wishes this war was over  _ now _ ; that Dean could return to his family; that Dean would notice how he makes Cas feel and maybe,  _ maybe _ , in a perfect peaceful world, Dean would reciprocate those feelings, and that the story of how they met would be something they could tell their grandchildren--but before he can get a word out, Alistair strides into the tent. Cas scrambles to his feet and stands at attention, tucking his rifle up against his shoulder.

“L-Lieutenant,” he greets.

Without a word, Alistair grabs Cas’ rifle and slams the butt of it across Dean’s face. Cas’ jaw drops, and he lets out an involuntary gasp as Dean cries out. His head snaps to the side with the force of the hit, and when he turns back to face Alistair, blood is trickling out of his nose, his jaw already swelling.

Dean opens his mouth, presumably to tell the lieutenant off, but before he can, Alistair is unbuckling Dean’s belt, yanking it roughly through the loops and causing Dean’s hips to jerk forward in the process.

“Hey!” Dean shouts, struggling against his bonds. “What the h _ mmph! _ ”

Dean’s protests are cut off when Alistair folds his belt in two and forces it between Dean’s teeth. Dean makes to spit it out, but Alistair claps his hand over his mouth and leans up close, leaving just an inch or two between them.

“This is a favor, boy,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. Dean stares at him, and Cas’ knees suddenly feel weak. He tries to sift through all the voices running rampant in his head, trying to figure out what to do, when he hears Dean’s muffled protests. He looks up and feels like he’s been punched in the gut when he sees that Alistair’s ripped open Dean’s shirt, exposing his bare chest.

Dean’s eyes flick from his chest, up to Alistair, and back, and Cas feels like he’s being strangled when he notices the panic flare up that Dean’s trying so hard to tamp down. Alistair turns around and reaches for something Gabriel’s holding, which Cas recognizes with growing dread as a branding iron. The metal glows orange at the end, and Cas squeezes his eyes shut and tries to stop his hands from trembling when he starts connecting the pieces together in his mind.

“You’ve been in our charge for quite a while, Winchester,” Alistair says, keeping his back to Dean. “Nobody has come to claim you, and there’s been no response to our request for a ransom, so as far as I’m concerned, that makes you our property now.”

When he turns around and Dean catches sight of the branding iron, Cas feels like he wants to throw up. Dean starts struggling harder against his bonds, and with a nod from Alistair, Michael and Gabriel step toward him. They each grip one of Dean’s shoulders tightly, forcing him still, but Dean doesn’t stop. 

“In case you weren’t aware,” Alistair says, obviously taking pleasure in nonchalantly bringing the brand close to Dean’s wide, panicked eyes, “you’re at Station 1237 of the Company. And anything that Station 1237 owns gets this. I see no reason why you should be any exception.”

Cas is frozen in place as Dean looks at him pleadingly, his eyes wide and desperate. Before either of them can react any more, Alistair lunges forward and presses the brand hard against Dean’s chest.

Dean tries to stop himself from screaming, Cas can tell that he really does, so it hurts even more when his muffled screams emanate through the tent. His eyes are screwed shut, teeth biting down hard into his belt. Michael and Gabriel keep holding him down, even when he’s stopped trying to pull away, and after what seems like an eternity, Alistair pulls the brand away.

Dean looks dazedly from Michael and Alistair to Cas and back, struggling to stay conscious. His chest heaves up and down slowly, his eyelids fluttering, and Alistair doesn’t even have to hit him hard before he slumps over, unconscious.

The silence in the air is stifling, and Cas can’t move. He stares at Dean with wide eyes and wonders if Alistair can tell if he looks horrified or disgusted. One would amuse the lieutenant; one would probably get Cas the same treatment that Dean just had.

Alistair’s lips curl up in a sneer and he turns toward Cas. “Carry on, Novak,” he says, kicking at Dean’s boot as he leaves.

It’s all Cas can do to manage a tiny nod. He waits until Alistair and everyone else is out of earshot before rushing to Dean’s side and dropping to his knees in front of him.

“Dean?” he whispers urgently, cupping Dean’s cheeks in his hands and slapping them gently, trying to incite some kind of reaction. “Dean, can you hear me? Dean?” He finally catches a glimpse of the 1237 branded into Dean’s chest and has to swallow hard to tamp down his lunch that wants to come back up. The red skin is practically crackling with anger and pain, and Cas cringes as he ghosts his fingers over it. Alistair had used the same branding iron that was used for cattle before the Company had outlawed it throughout the Stations, condemning it as inhumane; he’d thought they’d all been confiscated, but leave it to Alistair to be the exception to the rule.

Cas forces himself to study the burn and try to make as thorough a mental list as possible for supplies he can bring back from Hannah’s medical tent--ice, salve, maybe a cool cloth or a bandage.

He rests a hand on Dean’s knee and says softly, “I’ll be back, Dean.”

 

* * *

 

 

The camp is buzzing with activity this time, and Cas is quick to remember that Alistair likes to brag, and realizes that most of the people he passes know what just happened in the tent. If he’s seen walking back with items to treat a burn, there’s no way he’ll be able to help Dean, and he’ll probably end up with a few injuries to show off as well.

It seems to take an eternity to make it to Hannah’s tent, and when he finally does, he bursts inside and glances around quickly. “Hannah, I--”

“On the table, Cas.” Her voice comes from behind him, and he whirls around to see her standing at the entrance to the tent, wiping her hands on a cloth. She gives him a grim smile and nods toward a small pile of supplies resting on one side of the table. “I heard about what happened,” she says. “I was hoping you’d stop by.”

Cas gives her a relieved, grateful smile and scoops up the supplies. “Thank you,” he says breathlessly, and makes a beeline back to Dean.

 

* * *

 

 

When Cas returns to the tent, Dean is still unconscious, his head hanging down against his chest. Cas winces at the still-bright 1237 burned into Dean’s skin and presses a few ice cubes against the burn. Dean doesn’t stir, which Cas is simultaneously grateful for and anxious about. He keeps rubbing the ice over the brand until the cubes have melted, then wipes away the excess water with the cloth before applying some more. Once that’s done, he dips his fingers into the salve, straddles Dean’s legs without actually sitting on them, and gently begins to spread the salve over the burn. After a minute of this, Cas hears Dean moan softly and watches as he stirs a little. Eventually, his eyes open in small slits, and he stares at Cas disorientedly.

“C’s,” he slurs, blinking slowly before turning his attention back to the burn on his chest. “Wh--”

“It’s fine,” Cas breathes, rubbing the salve over Dean’s wound in slow, gentle circles. “You’ll be okay.”

“I…” He winces and sucks in a harsh breath through his teeth as Cas’ fingers brush a particularly tender spot on the burn. “Fuck.”

Cas lets out a soft, humorless laugh. “Yes. Exactly.” He finishes applying the salve and leans back, studying Dean carefully. “How do you feel?”

“Was the ‘fuck’ not enough of a reaction?” Dean asks sarcastically. He glances down at the dirt, then back up at Cas. “Cas,” he says slowly, “Why’re you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

Dean’s eyes are trained on the ground again as he mumbles, “Helping me.”

Cas bites hesitantly at the inside of his cheek before reaching out and resting his fingers underneath Dean’s chin, tilting his head back up to face him. “Because you don’t deserve this.” He pauses, then adds, “None of us do.” 

He trains his eyes on Dean’s, studying the green of his irises, and decides to keep his hand under Dean’s chin. It doesn’t seem to be bothering Dean, and Cas likes having his warmth, the faint traces of his stubble, so close under his fingertips. 

Dean’s eyes flick downward, and Cas is about to assume that he’s crossed a line, that Dean isn’t on the same page as him; that he’s just freaked out by the idiot straddling him while he’s tied to a chair, when he realizes that Dean isn’t looking at the ground; he’s looking at Cas’ lips.

He can feel the blush building rapidly, running up his neck and spreading across his cheeks in bright, broad strokes. When Dean looks up at Cas again, his tongue pokes out of his mouth and he licks his own lips. It’s quick and subtle, but it’s an invitation for everything Cas wants, and he leans forward before he has the chance to second-guess himself. 

Dean must have bitten his tongue during the struggle--Cas can taste the coppery tang of blood on Dean’s lips as they kiss, hesitantly at first. Cas can feel Dean lean forward in the chair, as much as his binds will allow, and he shifts his hand so that it moves from under Dean’s chin to resting on his cheek. He pulls up his free hand and places it on Dean’s other cheek, and he’s not sure he’s ever felt anything so  _ natural _ . He’s tried this before, but it had never felt as right as his hands on Dean’s face feel right now.

When Dean eventually pulls away, Cas finds himself unconsciously leaning forward to try and catch Dean’s lips in his again. Dean grins a little and shakes his head. 

“What?” Cas asks, suddenly wondering if he had somehow hurt Dean during what was supposed to be anything but. “Are you okay?”

“I’ve been wanting you to do that for so long, and you choose when I’m half-unconscious as the best time, you asshole.”

Cas laughs, but it comes out as more of a relieved sigh. “If you knew how long I’d wanted to do that--”

“Ball’s always been in your court, I can’t do much here, can I?” Dean barely finishes his sentence before hissing in pain and tossing his head back then glaring down at the brand. “Fuck. Goddamn it.”

“I’m so sorry, Dean.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, and doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. “‘S not your fault,” he finally mumbles. “I just... _ fuck _ , it hurts, Cas.”

“The salve should help,” Cas says, “and I cooled it off with some ice while you were still out. Hannah knows what happened, so I’m sure she’ll have everything read--”

“Hannah?”

“Our medic.”

Dean’s eyebrows furrow together and he grits his teeth. “I thought-- _ shit _ \--I thought you were the medic.”

“Me?” Cas can feel himself start blushing again, and as odd as it sounds, he’s glad that Dean is in too much pain to see it. “Oh, no. I mean, I’d  _ like  _ to be, and Hannah’s teaching me, but I’m not a full one yet.”

“Glad you’re not interested in blowing me or my friends’ heads off, though,” Dean says. “That’s a real plus, something to look for in a...significant other.”

Cas’ stomach just about drops out at that, and this time he  _ knows  _ Dean can see the flush building, partly because Dean gives him a tired little smile, and partly because  _ how the fuck could he  _ not  _ see it _ . 

“I, well, that’s good to know,” Cas stammers, and Dean laughs. It’s soft and weak, but it’s the closest thing Cas has heard to what he imagines Dean legitimate laugh sounds like, so he’ll take it.

“Hey, Cas,” he says suddenly, his eyelids drooping.

“Yes?”

“I’m, uh, gonna...I think I’m gonna pass out again.”

Cas grins. “Okay, Dean. I’ll be here.”

Dean doesn’t answer; his head lolls to the side, and sure enough, he’s unconscious again. Cas takes one more glance at the brand before placing the damp cloth over it and patting it gently to try and keep it as protected and cool as possible. He gets to his feet and walks behind the chair, studying Dean’s wrists. They’re a dark, angry red, the skin chafed and dried blood staining the ropes, which are knotted in at least two different ways to prevent him from sneaking out again. Cas wishes more than anything that he could cut those ropes loose, kiss the bruises and scars that Dean wears like bracelets, and get him out of here. But he can’t, not yet, anyway, so he does the next best thing he can think of.

He threads his fingers between Dean’s and squeezes his limp hand. “I’ll be here.”


	5. Chapter 5

Cas almost misses it.

His arms are full of supplies he’s carrying over to Hannah’s when he passes Lucifer and Michael’s tent, the flap of which is tied open with a small group clustered around something inside.

He doesn’t think much of it at first—he has no real reason to—but he stops short when he hears Lucifer finish a sentence with, “—kill that motherfucker right in front of them.”

Cas freezes at that, and it takes all he has not to drop the supplies to the ground. He backpedals a few steps and is about to poke his head into the tent to investigate when Balthazar looks up and catches his eye.

“Novak!” he says cheerfully, motioning for him to enter the tent. “Should’ve known you’d want to be involved.”

Cas walks shakily into the tent, nodding awkwardly at each of his fellow recruits, trying to hide his panic, which is just getting worse as the seconds pass. “What’s going on?” he asks.

Balthazar raises his eyebrows. “You haven’t heard about it?” he asks. When Cas shakes his head uncertainly, Balthazar quickly scoots aside and makes room for Cas to see what they’re all crowded around: a badly creased map spread out over the table.

“Luce’s wanted to drop this plan for ages,” Michael explains, “and now that we’ve got Winchester as leverage, Alistair’s finally giving it the okay.”

His excited grin makes Cas’ spine straighten. “I, uh, what’s the plan?” he stammers.

“Pretty simple, actually,” Balthazar says. “I’m surprised Alistair hasn’t let it happen sooner; we’ve had hostages from the Battalion before.”

“He was just waiting for the right time, until we had the right hostage,” Raphael says. Cas shuts his eyes and forces a smile on his face that he hopes doesn’t look too nauseated, especially since he’s in the middle of trying to stop himself from throwing up.

“Nothing fancy,” Lucifer says, looking up quickly at Cas before switching his focus onto the map again. “Aside from that idiot who tried to sneak his way in, we haven’t heard anything from the Battalion about getting Winchester back, so we’re going to make it more convenient for them.”

“Sneak attack,” Michael continues, holding his spread hands up in front of him like he’s picturing a movie scene. “We take ‘em by surprise to start. It’ll look like just a couple of us are there, ready to bargain for Winchester. They won’t do anything right away with him there, won’t want to hurt him accidentally, so we offer up a little trade of sorts. His life for their surrender. Simple.”

Cas stares at him. “They’re not going to agree to that,” he says.

Lucifer grins knowingly. “Exactly.” He raps his knuckles on the table and casually rolls his shoulders back. “And when they don’t, I’ll do the honors, right there in front of ‘em—“ he makes a slicing motion across his throat with his finger, and Cas is immediately brought back to Ash a few days earlier “—and then…that’s it.” He finishes the sentence with a casual shrug, as if it’s the simplest course of events in the world.

“There’ll be lots of us waiting nearby, and once we get the signal, we head in, too,” Raphael says. “And if everything goes according to plan, no more Battalion.”

“And everything  _ will  _ go according to plan,” Lucifer adds.

“Alistair’s making a headcount of who’ll be a part of it,” Balthazar says to Cas. “Last I heard, he’s almost got more volunteers than he knows what to do with, so if you want in, I’d make sure to talk to him soon.”

“Right.” Cas nods and tightens his grip on the supplies in his arms. “I’ll, uh, go do that. Now. I...thanks for letting me know.” He takes a few steps back out of the circle, and everyone else fills in the spot he used to occupy, excited chatter floating through the tent. Cas keeps backing up until he’s outside, and instead of continuing his course to the medical tent, he makes a beeline for his own.

He stumbles through the tent flap and dumps the medical supplies onto the grass next to his bed before dropping to his knees and pressing the heels of his hands into his mattress, breathing heavily to try and calm himself down.

With trembling fingers, he digs into his bedside drawer and grabs his notebook and pencil, flipping it to the next blank page and penning a hastily scrawled letter.

_ Sam-- _

_ I’m getting Dean back to you. Expect us soon. _

 

* * *

 

 

Cas’ next shift can’t come soon enough.

He spends most of the day lying in bed, worrying about whether or not he’ll be too late, that Alistair’s plan will happen sooner rather than later, and that when he goes to the tent for his shift, Dean will be gone.

He'd already gone to see Hannah, who had taken the news as well as could be expected, considering the circumstances.

 

 

 

 

_ “You're sure about this?” she asks. “This isn't just--” she waves her hand vaguely in front of her, “--I don't know.” _

_ Cas smiles at her. “No, it's not that.” He takes a few steps forward and clasps her hands in his. “This will work, Hannah. I know it.” _

_ She looks into his eyes, and Cas can see that they're glassy with unshed tears. “This is  _ so  _ dangerous,” she mutters. _

_ “I know,” Cas says. _

_ “What if they catch you? Kill you?” Hannah demands, pulling her hands out of Cas’ grip. “I can't see that happen, Cas. I won't.” _

_ Cas pauses, and for the first time, the consequences and danger of what he's about to do finally set in. He'll never see Hannah again, his parents, anyone. He's betting it all on someone he'd only known of from legends mere weeks ago. If the Company finds him after this, he'll be killed, and he knows it won't happen slowly. He's upending his life for this, and just admitting that to himself makes a weight drop in the pit of his stomach. _

_ The only thing that alleviates that weight, even slightly, is the knowledge that Dean would do the same for him. _

_ “You're right,” Cas says slowly. “You won't, because it's not going to happen.” He gives her a small smile that he hopes is reassuring. “We can do this. I can’t stay here anymore, Hannah.” _

_ Hannah takes a deep breath as Cas is preparing to argue his point even more, but stops short when he sees her nod. She turns around and grabs a small bag off the table, then heads to the rows and rows of supplies on the other side of the tent. “Find a way to get in touch with me,” she says, tossing bandages and alcohol and other supplies into the bag. “Let me know you’re okay. Please.” _

_ “Of course.” _

_ Hannah glances into the bag, then walks over and hands it to Cas before pulling him into a tight hug. “Be safe, Castiel Novak.” _

 

 

Cas smiles sadly to himself at the memory, then glances onto the floor where Hannah’s bag is sitting. He’s going to miss his best friend, and he’d be lying if he said he wouldn’t, but he tries to alleviate that anxiety by assuring himself that yes, he’s going to make it out of here alive, he’s going to get in touch with Hannah, and this isn’t the last time he’ll see her.

He can promise himself that much.

 

* * *

 

 

Cas doesn’t waste a second when it’s finally time for his shift to begin.

“We’re leaving,” Cas says as he barges into the tent later that night, barely waiting for Raphael to be out of earshot.

“We’re  _ what _ ?” Dean stares at him, his eyes following Cas as he rushes behind Dean and starts pulling at the knots tying his hands together. “Hey! Cas, what the fuck is going on?”

“They’re planning an ambush on the Battalion soon,” Cas says softly as he works on the knots. “Very,  _ very _ soon.”

Dean goes still at that, and Cas nods. “Exactly. And they want to take you as leverage, to get them to surrender. And if for some reason the Battalion refuses or tries to negotiate, you’re  _ not  _ getting out of it alive.”

Dean is silent for a minute, and Cas can feel the way his arms stiffen as he continues working on the ropes. “So we’re leaving,” Dean finally says faintly.

“We’re leaving,” Cas agrees. 

“How the hell are you planning on sneaking me out of here?” Dean asks. “Because, uh, call me crazy, but somehow I feel like your pals won’t just let me waltz around wherever I want.”

“Alistair wants you closer to his tent for the plan,” Cas says without hesitation, surprised that he’d been able to come up with an answer so quickly, and that said answer actually makes sense. “There’s an empty tent right next to his, so it won’t look suspicious. They’re not too far from the edges of camp, either, so we should be able to sneak through without a problem.” He pauses, knowing Dean won’t like the next part. “It’s almost dinnertime, but there’s a chance we’ll still be passing a lot of people, so we need to make it authentic.”

“As in?”

“I need to keep you tied up,” Cas says quickly, “but it’ll be loose, okay? And we’ll need a hood, but--”

“A hood? Come on, Cas.”

“Dean,” Cas says, loosening the ropes enough for Dean to get unsteadily to his feet and stretch out his limbs, which haven’t been used for more than a few minutes a day for nearly a week. “When we transfer hostages, especially hostages as valuable as you are, we use a hood. I don’t want to remind you of the first time you got here, but--”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember,” Dean mutters bitterly.

“We have to keep this in character if it’s going to work,” Cas says, adjusting the ropes around Dean’s wrists so that they’re loose, but still look tight. When he’s finished, he digs around the tent’s supplies for a black hood, then holds it up apologetically to Dean. “Are you ready? Can you do this?”

Dean sighs, then nods. “Let’s go.” 

He closes his eyes, and Cas isn’t prepared for the lump that forms in his throat as he pulls the hood over Dean’s head. Dean’s posture is straight and unwavering, reminiscent of how someone would stand knowing they were about to walk to their death.

Cas shakes his head to rid himself of the thought--Dean will be fine, they’ll  _ both  _ be fine--and stands behind Dean before putting one hand on his shoulder and one over his wrists tied behind his back. Before they start walking, Cas leans forward, nearly resting his chin on Dean’s shoulder.

“Trust me,” he murmurs. Cas feels the way Dean allows his body--just barely--to relax into Cas’ grip, and Cas takes that as a good sign. “You’ll be okay.”

They make their way slowly through the camp, Cas carefully treading the line between letting Dean stumble to make their actions look authentic, and making sure he doesn’t walk into anything that would seriously hurt him. He can feel how hesitant Dean’s steps are, and Cas stays alert, only roughly shoving Dean forward a few inches whenever someone’s looking at them.

Cas starts to get optimistic--maybe they’ll really be able to pull this off--until he feels Dean stumble forward violently and land flat on his face with a grunt. Cas’ eyes widen and he immediately bends down to help Dean up, only to see an outstretched leg in front of them, presumably having just tripped Dean. His eyes follow the leg up until he locks eyes with Lucifer, who smiles down at him.

“Hey there, Novak,” he says casually.

“Lucifer,” Cas says, trying to swallow down his anxiety. He reaches down and clasps his hands around Dean’s wrists to pull him back up to his feet, but he freezes when Lucifer’s booted foot presses down gently on his hand to stop him.

“Who’ve we got here?” he asks, even though it’s clear to both him and Cas that he knows exactly who it is. He kicks at Cas’ hands until he pulls them away, then roughly flips Dean onto his back and reaches for the hood. He pulls the black cloth up over Dean’s face and Cas’ heart drops at the hatred in Lucifer’s eyes.

Dean smirks. “ _ There’s  _ my best pal,” he says, not bothering to try and hide the bitterness in his voice at all. “Long time no see.”

Lucifer chuckles humorlessly, then drops his smile and smacks Dean hard across the face. “Where the fuck are you two going?” he demands, looking up at Cas.

“Empty tent next to Alistair’s,” Cas recites, surprising himself with how calm he sounds. “Got a request that he be closer for the, uh--”

“Oh,  _ right _ ,” Lucifer says, and his smile is real this time as he kicks at Dean’s leg. “For when we take out everyone  _ you _ know and love. That’ll be fun.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Give it your best shot, you piece of shit.”

Cas cringes, wondering how the hell Dean gets through life without a filter for his thoughts. Lucifer wastes no time in kneeling down next to Dean. He reaches down and grips Dean’s jaw hard between his fingers, bringing Dean’s face up closer to his. 

“Lucifer, we--” Cas says, trying to break this interaction apart before it gets worse.

“Shut up, Novak,” Lucifer snaps before turning his attention back to Dean. “I can tell you your future, Winchester. Wanna hear it?” He pauses for a second, staring into Dean’s eyes before continuing. “You’re gonna die. We’re going to take you back to your precious little camp, and we’re going to bargain with them--your life for their surrender.” Lucifer chuckles, and Cas’ eyes widen when he notices Lucifer go for his belt. “But you know what? They’re not gonna take the deal. They won’t surrender, and then I’ll just--” he pulls out his knife and forces Dean’s chin up, dragging the blade along his neck, “--slit your throat.”

“Lucifer!” Cas says faintly, trying to block out the way Dean’s face has gone pale, the traces of panic in his eyes when he glances over at Cas. Lucifer points his knife at Cas to quiet him, but keeps his eyes on Dean, jerking his head back to face him.

“You look at  _ me _ ,” Lucifer says, “not him.” He teases the blade at the nape of Dean’s neck. “He’s leading you to your death, Winchester. He’s leading you to me.”

“We have to go,” Cas says, using an authoritative air to try and hide the shakiness in his voice. 

Lucifer tucks his knife away and releases his grip on Dean’s jaw, looking disappointed. When he looks back up at Cas, though, his eyes are alight with hope. “Hey, here’s an idea,” he says. “Let me take it from here. I’m sure you’re hungry; let me bring our guest to the tent.”

Cas’ eyes widen and any remaining color in Dean’s face drains away, and Cas can’t say no fast enough.

Lucifer raises his eyebrows. “No?”

Cas shakes his head. “I need to prove myself,” he says. “After I...let him escape.”

“Fine, fine,” Lucifer says with a sigh. “I’ll be seeing you soon enough, anyway.” He kicks at Dean’s arm before heading toward the mess hall.

Cas waits until Lucifer is out of sight before dropping to his knees and helping Dean up. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, barely moving his lips. Dean’s still pale, and he doesn’t look at Cas as he slowly gets to his feet. “You’re okay, I promise.”

“That was the plan,” Dean says faintly, his voice so soft that Cas almost doesn’t even hear it. “That’s what he was gonna do to me? In front of everyone.”

“He won’t, Dean,” Cas says, giving Dean’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “We’re getting out of here.” Cas is about to start moving again when he notices the hood lying on the ground.

_ Shit _ .

“Get it,” Dean says, and Cas looks at him curiously.

“What?”

“I don’t want to see this place again unless it’s in the rearview,” he says, shifting his wrists behind his back. “Put it back on so we can get out of here.”

Cas studies Dean for the a few seconds, the way he stands with his shoulders back, looking straight ahead even after everything that’s happened. He reaches down and picks up the hood, shaking off some loose dirt. Before putting it on, Cas makes sure no one can see him, then brushes his lips against Dean’s dirt-streaked cheek. “You’re okay,” he whispers again.

Dean doesn’t flinch when Cas pulls the hood over his head, but when Cas wraps one hand around Dean’s wrists, he can feel his hands trembling.

Thankfully, Lucifer is the only member of Station 1237 that they run into. Cas picks up the pace, guiding Dean as much as he can as they approach Alistair’s tent. 

“Almost there,” Cas murmurs as they pass Alistair’s tent and stop in front of the one next door. When they get there, Cas gently pulls Dean to a stop and pulls back the flap to enter. “Straight ahead.”

Once they’re inside, Cas pulls the hood off of Dean’s head and drops it to the ground. Dean looks around, then glances over his shoulder at Cas, his eyes asking a silent question.

“We’re in the tent next to Alistair’s,” he says. “I don’t think you need the hood anymore.”

Dean nods and gives Cas a wan smile. “Silver lining.”

Cas looks Dean up and down for a few seconds, his dirty, bruised, and beaten body, arms tied behind his back, eyes exhausted, and pulls him into a hug. Dean stumbles into it, taken by surprise.

“What Lucifer said,” Cas says softly, “that’s not going to happen to you. We’re getting out of here, and you’re never going to see him or this place again. I’ll make sure of it.”

Dean stays still, his body stiff in Cas’ arms, but a warmth glows in Cas’ gut when he finally feels Dean relax into the embrace. He drops his head down onto Cas’ shoulder, and Cas grins when he feels Dean’s mouth curve up into a smile against him.

“Th’nks, Cas,” he mumbles against the fabric. He lifts his head and waits for Cas to make eye contact with him; when he does, Dean leans in and presses his lips against Cas’. It’s not the perfect kiss: Cas can tell that Dean wants to use his hands, but he figures there will be plenty of time for that later, so for now, he closes his eyes and drinks in the feeling of Dean’s lips against his, the way Dean nips gently at his lower lip. He wants to keep the kiss going, wants to untie Dean and the two of them can do whatever they want for as long as they want, but he’s quickly jerked back to reality when he hears someone shout from outside the tent.

It’s nothing serious, but it’s enough to get Cas’ attention, and he unwillingly breaks the kiss, looking apologetically at Dean. “I wanted someone to see us go in here,” he says, “so they wouldn’t think we were just going straight for the woods. We can sneak out the back here, but I think the ropes will have to stay for a bit longer, just to be safe. I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean sighs but nods. “Least the hood’s gone, right?” he says, trying not to sound too disappointed.

Cas smiles at him. “Exactly. Ready?”

Dean turns around to face the back of the tent in response. Cas hurries over and lifts the heavy canvas as high as it’ll go, watching as Dean ducks awkwardly underneath it before following suit. They’re about fifty feet from the tree line of the forest, and Cas wants to make the home stretch go by quickly, so he assumes his position and starts directing Dean towards the woods.

They walk confidently toward the woods, sticks and dried leaves crunching under their boots, and Cas breathes a quick sigh of relief when they pass the first cluster of trees, signaling that they’re out of the boundaries of Station 1237. “Keep walking,” Cas whispers, positioning his face as close to Dean’s as possible. “We’re almost far enough out.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I think we’re far enough from camp,” Cas says, taking one more glance around. They’re deep in the woods, past the River that serves as an unofficial border between the Company and the Battalion. No one had been the wiser, and for the first time in a long time, Cas had felt confident, that his plan had actually worked.

“Thank fuck,” Dean says before awkwardly bending forward to give Cas better access to his bound wrists. Cas bends down close to begin working out the knots, and he can’t help but smile when Dean lets out an impatient huff. “I really hope you’re not into this bondage shit, Cas,” he says, “because I’ll tell you right now, this is the  _ last _ time I’m getting tied up.”

Cas doesn’t even have time to laugh before a pair of rough hands drops onto his shoulders, and he feels himself being dragged away from Dean. He just barely manages to catch a glimpse of someone looping their arm around Dean’s neck and pulling him away, as well, and his heart sinks.

He was wrong. They shouldn’t have stopped; they weren’t far enough.

_ Alistair,  _ Cas thinks as he struggles hard, pulling against the grip of whoever’s been charged with bringing them back.  _ He’s going to kill Dean. He’s going to kill him, and it’s all my fault _ . With tears burning his eyes, he fights to catch even the slightest glances of Dean in the darkness. When all he hears is a strangled grunt coming from Dean’s direction, his panic switches into hyperdrive.

“Dean!” 

Something heavy and blunt, probably a branch or a bat, cracks against Cas’ head and he drops to his knees. Despite struggling as hard as he can to stay conscious, he can already see blackness creeping into the edges of his vision. 

He closes his eyes and hears a surprised voice asking, “Dean?” before everything goes black.

 

* * *

Cas’ head is pounding when he eventually regains consciousness. When he finally gets his bearings, he’s startled to come face to face almost immediately with an older man sporting a scraggly beard and eyes that look like they  _ could _ be warm and caring, but right now are the exact opposite.

He tries to bring his hand up to press against his aching head, but soon realizes that he’s seated in a chair, and his hands are tied firmly behind his back. He struggles a little, more for show than anything; he has no expectations of being able to free himself, especially in front of Scraggly Beard. Instead, he swallows hard to tamp down his nerves and sets his sights on making conversation.

“W-where’s Dean?”

The man narrows his eyes at Cas, his expression making it clear that he’d like to do much more than that to express his anger. “He ain’t your concern anymore.”

Cas’ eyes widen. Dean’s dead. These people--whoever they are--killed him. “No,” he whispers. “He can’t--”

Scraggly Beard laughs coldly. “Too bad for you, guess you won’t be getting whatever reward you were promised for bringin’ ‘im back to your camp, huh?”

Cas stares at him, unsure of how to respond. “I, no, I’m not--”

“Save it.”

“I don’t--who are you? I, I just wanted to help--”

This  _ really  _ makes Scraggly Beard laugh, hard enough that he slaps his knee. “You expect me to believe that horseshit? That you don’t know where you are, that you wanted to  _ help _ us? Let me tell you, boy, when we found Dean with you, he was in the worst shape of his life, and you want to try and claim that all his broken bones and bruises are because you wanted to  _ help us _ ? To help  _ him _ ?” He scoffs. “Save it for someone who cares.”

Cas’ eyes widen at hearing him call Dean by his name, and a thought hits him hard and fast. “So you’re--wait, are you part of the Battalion? Is that where I am right now?”

Scraggly Beard smiles humorlessly. “What gave it away?” 

Cas shakes his head desperately. “No, you don’t understand, the Company, they’re planning an attack on you. They were going to use Dean as leverage, and I couldn’t--”

Scraggly Beard scoffs. “How dumb do you think I am, boy?”

Cas opens his mouth to continue his protests, but thinks better of it and stays silent, trying to gather his thoughts into something coherent. He has to make this man believe him. He _has_ to.

The man chuckles. “That’s what I thought.” He pauses, considering Cas. “How do we know you’re not a spy? Just here to double-cross us? Because let me tell you, boy,” he leans in close, as if he’s about to share a secret, “this ain’t my first rodeo.” 

Cas swallows hard, unsure of whether he’s really expected to give an answer or not.

Before he can make a decision, though, a boy Cas hadn’t noticed before takes a few steps forward, out of the shadows from the entryway of the tent. Cas stares at him as he gets closer. He’s definitely younger than Cas--he can tell by his face and the way he can still see glints of warmth in his eyes--but he’s  _ tall _ , nearly six feet, and Cas starts wondering with a growing sense of dread if he’s about to become this kid’s personal punching bag.

“Bobby,” the boy says softly, and Scraggly Beard huffs out a sigh before turning around to face him.

“Get out of here, boy.”

The boy shakes his head firmly and takes a few steps forward. “I want to talk to him,” he says, nodding toward Cas, who feels his gut clench in anticipation. “Talking” almost always translates to “beating,” at least in his camp, and judging by the looks of him, this kid could throttle him with one good punch.

“You’re not--”

“Bobby, please.”

Scraggly Beard looks at the boy warily, but stands up and moves aside so that the boy can take his place.

The boy walks up and crouches down in front of Cas; Cas flinches away by instinct, and the boy does, too, almost as if he’s surprised to have that effect on someone, like he wants to apologize for scaring him. Instead, though, he reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out several wrinkled pieces of paper. They’re badly creased from being folded and unfolded so many times, and are held so that Cas can’t see any writing on them.

He holds them next to his face and stares at Cas seriously. “Do you know what these are?” 

“How would I--” Cas’ brows furrow together in confusion, but after a few seconds, his eyes widen with clarity. “You’re Sam,” he says softly.

The stoniness around the boy’s--Sam’s--face crumbles away almost immediately, and he rushes forward and envelops Cas in a tight hug.

Cas can’t help it; he gasps a little at the sudden impact, which just makes Sam hug him harder. “Thank you,” Sam whispers into Cas’ ear.

 

* * *

 

 

“I thought he was dead.” Sam shakes his head slowly before taking a sip of coffee, using the chipped mug to keep his hands warm. He’d explained who Cas was to Scraggly Beard--Bobby--and he’d never been made comfortable faster or been apologized to more times in his life. “When his group came back to camp and he wasn’t with them, I just…he’s all I’ve got, you know? I mean, we  _ all  _ sort of become a family once we get into this life, but Dean’s my brother, and before I got your letters, I assumed the worst.”

“I understand,” Cas says, giving Sam a small smile. “Dean gave me a bit of a rundown about your family situation.”

Sam raises his eyebrows, surprised. “He did?” He lets out a low whistle. “He must’ve taken a shine to you fast; he’s normally the opposite of an open book with anything even remotely involving feelings.”

Cas nods, thinking back to his earliest interactions with Dean. “I could see that. Easily.”

Sam barks out a laugh at that. “Leave it to Dean to fall for the guard of the camp that’s holding him hostage.”

Cas is about to laugh at the ridiculousness of that statement, too, but the words “camp” and “hostage” trigger a reminder of the second half of what he’d wanted to achieve with this mission.

“They’re coming,” he says suddenly, taking Sam by surprise.

“What?”

“The Company,” he says urgently, scrambling to his feet and pacing around the tent, holding his head in his hands. “I tried to tell you earlier. That’s the whole reason I decided to get Dean out of there. They’re planning on launching an ambush on you all, and they were going to bring him as leverage to have you do what they wanted, or surrender, I don’t know, but they might already be on their way and I didn’t warn you in time and--”

Sam reaches out and grips Cas’ shoulders. “Cas, wait.” His face had darkened at the mention of the Company, and Cas swallows hard in an attempt to tamp down his emotions, hoping that they’re not too late, that the Company isn’t waiting right outside for them despite the fact that they don’t have Dean anymore, ready to attack at the slightest of movements.

“They’re coming?” he asks.

Cas nods.

“Do you know when?”

“I can’t be sure,” he says, “but most likely tonight, if I know their fighting patterns as well as I think I do.”

Sam tents his fingers in front of his mouth, considering this. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, we can do this. We have time. Cas, you remember Bobby, right?”

“How could I forget,” Cas mutters, a bit more sarcastically than he intended. His eyes widen when he realizes his level of sass with his last comment, but is relieved when Sam chuckles.

“Yeah, he can be a bit, uh, rough around the edges, but he’s one of our head generals, and the one who would be able to prepare enough people for this type of thing. Do you think there’ll be a lot of them?”

Cas nods. “It won’t look like a lot at first, the original plan was to have maybe three or four with Dean, and then the rest would be hiding nearby. They were close to having to turn people away for this, Sam.”

Cas watches as the color slowly drains from Sam’s face at that, and his stomach twists uncomfortably. “Okay. Okay, we can still get out of this. I’m going to get Bobby in here, and I need you to tell him everything you just told me. And trust me, he won’t want to kill you this time.”

 

* * *

 

Sam is right; Bobby’s done a complete 180 from when Cas first met him. He’s surprisingly warm and caring when you’re on his good side, and with the double positives of bringing Dean back  _ and  _ warning about an impending attack, Cas has secured himself in Bobby’s good graces for the foreseeable future.

Once Cas has finished filling in Bobby on the situation, Sam looks at the older man hopefully. “So what do you think, Bobby?” he asks. “Can we take them?”

Bobby reaches for his bottle of alcohol and takes a long swig before tenting his fingers in front of his mouth. His face is blank, and not being able to guess what he’s thinking or how he thinks they’ll fare against the Company makes Cas nervous. They’re not nearly as large or well-trained as the Company, and there’s a chance that Alistair and his troops might just overpower them completely.

“Even if we can’t,” Bobby finally says, “we can sure as hell try.”

Bobby goes into detail, then, more thinking out loud than actually asking for Cas or Sam’s opinions. He talks about how many people he could round up on such short notice, and is confident that because Dean is back--and because they’re up against the people who had captured Dean in the first place--he’ll have no trouble finding volunteers, and Sam agrees.

They’re cutting it close, and even though Cas doesn’t have much in the way of battle-ready experience, he thinks that Bobby’s plan of attack is solid, and that it may actually end up working. Hopefully.

“Any questions?” Bobby asks roughly when he’s finished, glancing between the two of them.

“Just one,” Sam says, and nudges Cas’ arm. Cas looks at him questioningly, and Sam gives him a small smile. “I’m guessing the answer is yes, but I figured I’d ask anyway. Do you want to see Dean?”

Dean is asleep when Sam leads Cas into the tent. He looks more peaceful than Cas has ever seen him, lying on his back with a blanket pulled halfway up his chest, a few bandages wrapped around his torso peeking out from underneath. Cas opens his mouth to say something, but closes it again almost immediately, deciding instead to just take in the simplicity of Dean’s face, the way his lips are slightly parted in sleep, the freckles that are more visible now that the bruising has cleared up a little.

“He was asking about you,” Sam says, and the words catch Cas off guard.

“Really?”

Sam nods. “Wanted to make sure you were okay, I think. That we didn’t jump to too many conclusions too fast.”

Cas nods, then studies Dean again. “Is he o--”

“He’s just sleeping,” he says softly, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself more than Cas. “He’ll be okay. Charlie, Andy, and Jo are outside; they’ll watch out for you two while we’re gone.”

“What’re you going to--”

“Take care of this.” Sam says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and gives Cas a grim smile. “It won’t be over, of course, but I think we’ve got enough of a jump on them to hold them back.”

Cas swallows hard. “Sam, I...you’re not going, are you?”

Sam looks at him, confused. “Of course I am. We need all the reinforcements we can get.”

Cas closes his eyes, then glances over at Dean’s sleeping form. He worries his lower lip between his teeth, and Sam immediately understands. He gives Cas a small smile that tries too hard to be positive and reassuring, and rests a hand on Cas’ shoulder.

“It’s time for me to protect him for a change,” he says.

Cas nods slowly, then looks up at Sam. “Good luck.”

Sam grins. “Don’t worry,” he says. “It’ll work.” He claps Cas on the back and turns around to head out of the tent. Cas turns his attention to Dean and is about to look him over for any other injuries when he feels a hand on his shoulder again. He looks behind him just in time to feel Sam turn him around and envelop him in a hug. “Thank you, Cas.”

Cas doesn’t know what to say; a simple “you’re welcome” seems too casual and simple, so he just hugs Sam back and doesn’t let go until the younger Winchester releases him and flashes him one more small smile before exiting the tent.

Cas kneels down and takes Dean’s hand in his own, running his thumb over Dean’s knuckles before giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Hello, Dean,” he says softly. 

He wants to lay next to Dean, to climb up into the bed and press himself against Dean’s back, wrap his arm across Dean’s chest, tangle their feet together, run his fingers through Dean’s hair, do everything they’d never been able to do at the camp. He doesn’t know the extent of Dean’s injuries, though, and doesn’t want to risk making anything worse, so instead, Cas squeezes Dean’s hand one more time before resting his head on the thin mattress between Dean’s arm and side.

He closes his eyes and falls asleep to the slow, calm rhythm of Dean’s breathing.

 

* * *

 

 

The yelling and gunshots are what force Cas out of sleep.

He winces as he startles awake, his hand still entwined with Dean’s, and his eyes dart around the tent. They’re alone, and there’s no signs of vandalism or attempts to get inside, but the noises coming from around them are still unsettling, and as much as he wants to stay right where he is, Cas gets unsteadily to his feet.

Dean mumbles something in his sleep and tries to keep Cas at his side, and Cas looks down at him in an effort to reassure himself that he’s alive, he’s okay, nobody else is going to hurt him.

“I’ll be right back, Dean,” he murmurs, giving Dean’s hand one last squeeze before making his way toward the tent’s entrance.

He hadn’t seen much of the Battalion when he’d been shuffled around last night, but he’s surprised to see that the ashy, run-down look he’d noticed before is still prevalent in the daytime. There are lots of tents pitched around them, but most are worn and have patches sewn to cover holes and tears, something that’s practically unheard of in the Company. Cas is about to take a few steps outside, maybe a quick walk around to stretch his legs, when a spry blonde girl not much younger than him pops up out of nowhere.

“ _ Hey _ !” she hisses, her eyes wide. “What th--get back inside!”

Cas stares at her, mouth agape. “But, I--”

“In _ side _ !” Without waiting for a response, she presses her hands against his shoulders and shoves him backward into the tent so quickly that he stumbles over himself.

“Who are you?” he demands, glancing back over his shoulder at Dean, who’s still asleep.

“The one in charge of protecting your stupid asses,” she says, balancing on her toes to glance at Dean from over Cas’ shoulder. “And I can’t exactly do that with you romping all over camp, now, can I?”

“I heard gunshots,” Cas says, and the girl rolls her eyes.

“Of course you heard  _ gunshots _ , we’re in the middle of a fucking  _ ambush _ .”

Cas’ heart drops into his stomach at that. He’d been too late; he and Dean are safe for now, but there’s no telling what the Company will do once they get ahold of them again. 

“Been going on for hours,” she continues. “Surprised you’re just getting woken up by it now.”

“Did--are we losing? Do you know?”

The girl smiles grimly. “We aren’t exactly winning,” she says in a tone that reminds Cas of Dean. “But thanks to you, Mr. Hot Tip, I think we’re doing okay. Bobby had seemed pretty confident going in.”

Cas takes a deep breath. “Have you heard anything, though?” He pauses, swallowing down his anxiety. “I don’t want Dean to wake up and Sam’s--”

He’s interrupted when Dean stirs and moans a little bit in his sleep, and then inadvertently reaches for the space where Cas’ hand used to be. Cas’ heart jumps as he darts back to his position next to Dean and takes his hand, the blonde girl following close behind.

“Dean?”

“C’s?” he asks groggily, reaching up to rub at his eyes with his free hand. “Did we...where--ow,  _ fuck _ !” 

The girl had reached over Cas and smacked Dean hard on the arm; Cas stares at her, taken aback. She grins at him, folding her arms across her chest. “Welcome home, Winchester.”

Dean squints at her, apparently still trying to figure out where the hell he is, but it’s clear he holds this girl dear when his face lights up. “Jo,” he says softly.

“Battalion wasn’t the same without you, Dean,” she says, grinning fondly at him.

Dean’s eyes widen at that, and he immediately becomes more alert, his eyes darting around and taking in all of their surroundings in the tent. “We’re--wait. Is Sam--”

“He’s very nice,” Cas says, giving Dean a small grin. “Just like you described him.”

Dean’s face melts into a softness Cas has never seen before at the relief of hearing that his little brother is safe. “Where is he?”

“You talking about this gigantor?” 

Dean, Cas, and Jo all turn to see another woman, a redhead this time, standing in the entrance to the tent next to Sam, who looks flushed and sweaty and a little rougher for wear, but alive and with all his appendages intact, which is really all they can ask for.

“Thanks for the intro, Charlie,” he says, rolling his eyes.

Charlie salutes. “It’s what I’m here for, el capitan.” She lets the tent flap drop closed and grabs a nearby chair, sitting down and making herself comfortable. When Cas catches her eye, flashing her a curious look, she grins at him. “I’ll say my hellos after the brotherly love’s done.”

Cas nods and gives her a small smile in return before focusing his attention on Sam, who’s heading toward them--toward Dean, in particular. Dean pushes himself up to a sitting position with a wince and a few pained breaths, but manages to be ready for the incoming hug from his mammoth of a younger brother.

“Missed you, Sammy,” Cas can just barely hear him mumble into Sam’s shaggy hair.

Sam laughs and shakes his head. “Me, too, Dean. We all did.” He catches Cas’ eye from over Dean’s shoulder and Cas can see the way his smile reaches his eyes, and likes to think that the action is aimed at him. 

“We did it. They’re gone, at least for now,” Sam adds proudly, and Dean grins. 

“Atta boy,” he says, smacking Sam weakly on the back. 

Sam nods. “A few injuries, none we haven’t seen before, and a few broken bones that might need to be set, but no casualties.” He beams at his older brother when he says the last two words, then turns to Cas. “Your little plan worked, by the way, Cas,” he adds.

Cas’ eyes brighten. “Really?” he asks excitedly, which gives Dean pause.

“Uh, little plan?” Dean asks, eyes darting back and forth between the two of them. “One of you two care to fill me in?”

Cas hesitates. He glances at Sam, for what he’s not sure, and the younger Winchester nods. “Go ahead,” he says.

“When we were going over the Company’s plans with Bobby, I realized that I may have run into a bit of a problem myself,” Cas begins slowly.

 

_ “What’re  _ you  _ gonna do, Cas?” Sam asks. _

_ “About what?” _

_ Sam cracks his fingers, seemingly more out of nervous habit than anything, before resting his elbows on the table and studying him curiously. “You’re not planning on going back to the Company, right?” _

_ “Of course not,” Cas says, surprised that Sam would even suggest it. _

_ “That’s good.” Sam nods before running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Dean’ll be happy about that, I think.” He pauses, then adds, “Will, uh, will the Company?” _

_ Cas’ brows furrow together. “What do you mean?” _

_ Sam sighs, and while he’s trying to figure out the right words to use, Bobby steps in and does it for him. _

_ “What he’s worried about is whether or not anyone’s going to be comin’ after you, boy,” he says gruffly. _

_ Oh _ , fuck _. _

_ Cas’ stomach flips uncomfortably at that. He’d never even considered the idea that the Company would try and come after him, and even though he immediately starts trying to convince himself they won’t, he knows that they will. Especially Lucifer, who he had made a fool of while helping Dean to escape. He’ll want revenge on both him  _ and  _ Dean, and won’t let anyone or anything get in his way. Cas squeezes his eyes closed, and that’s all the answer Sam seems to need. _

_ “I can’t go back,” Cas says quietly, more to himself than Sam or Bobby. “Not after this.” _

_ Sam’s eyes widen. “Of course you’re not, Cas,” he says, alarmed that Cas would even think that’s a possibility, which makes Cas feel a tiny bit better. “Nobody’s even suggesting that; we just need to think of some way to keep you safe and make sure they don’t try anything. That they leave you both alone.” _

_ A tense silence fills the tent. Cas watches as Bobby turns his attention back to the map spread out in front of him, leaving the plotting to him and Sam, but Sam looks just as lost as Cas feels. _

_ “They’ll kill me if they find me,” Cas says, stating the obvious as he thinks back to the torture that had been inflicted on Dean, his own beating, the techniques he’d learned during his time in Station 1237. All of it would be done to him, over and over again, and slowly, drawn out and as painful as possible. _

_ Sam’s mouth scrunches up to one side of his face as he thinks, but a few seconds later, realization seems to hit as he straightens immediately. “Unless we kill you first.” _

_ And for the first time since he’d arrived, Cas feels scared for his life. What else did he have to do to prove that he was worth keeping around? Was protecting and saving Sam’s brother--arguably one of the most valuable members of the Battalion--not enough to earn his safety? _

_ “Sam,” Cas begins, pushing his chair back a few inches, and Sam’s eyes widen in realization. _

_ “Oh, no, no, no,” he says, shaking his head and holding out his hands in front of Cas. “Not for real, Cas, Jesus. I mean we should take something of yours--” he reaches across the table and pinches a bit of Cas’ coat between his fingers, “--and make it  _ look  _ like you were killed.” He smiles grimly before pulling out a small knife and tapping the side of it against his palm. “I’ll even provide the blood.” _

_ Cas hesitates. “What if they don’t believe you?” _

_ “I’m a good actor, Cas.” Sam pauses, then adds, “Would they have any reason  _ not  _ to believe me?” _

_ As Cas thinks that over, he realizes that no, if faced with his bloody coat, they’d have no reason to believe he was still alive. They’d assume that Cas spilled about the ambush in an attempt to save himself, but that it wasn’t enough. Nobody except Hannah knew about his feelings for Dean, so they’d have no reason to think that the Battalion was protecting him; to them, it’d be perfectly rational for Sam to have killed him after getting the information he wanted. _

_ “No,” he finally says. “No. They’d believe it.” _

_ Sam gives him a humorless smile at that, and holds out his hand, gesturing toward Cas’ coat. “Let’s get that thing looking like a dead man’s, then.” _

 

Dean stares at Cas incredulously as he finishes up explaining the story. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he says. “You did that?”

Cas nods. 

Dean shakes his head, but Cas can see the way his lips turn up slightly in a small smile. “And they bought it?” he asks again.

“They bought it,” Sam interjects.

“Cas, your family, your job--”

“I said my goodbyes to everyone I hold dear,” he interrupts, squeezing Dean’s hand assuredly. “And as for my job, Hannah had it covered. She’s an amazing medic, so much better than I could ever hope to be. She, uh, had an idea as to how I felt about you--”

Dean laughs. “You were that obvious, huh?”

Cas glares at him with mock indignance. “Not at first. But anyway, I noticed that you don’t have a medic at all here, or anything close, really.”

Dean shrugs. “Not last I heard.”

Cas nods. “Exactly. And it sounds like I’ve got a few patients already.”

Warmth spreads through Cas’ body when he notices the crinkles in the corners of Dean’s eyes making a reappearance, and Dean smiles down at their hands entwined together before looking back up at him.

“Well, in that case, let’s start over, shall we?” He pulls his hand back and holds it out for Cas to shake. “Dean Winchester, Battalion sharpshooter.”

Cas stares at his extended hand for a second, taken aback, but grins and clasps his own hand in Dean’s. “Castiel Novak, Battalion medic extraordinaire.”

Dean chuckles. “Nice to meet you, Castiel Novak.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Dean Winchester.”


End file.
